


Baby Brother

by autumnalbee (redherring)



Series: Brothers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Dogs, Drug Use, Fluff, Kidlock, Military Kink, Minor Character Death, Multi, Sherlock is a dorky teenager, Smithslock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/pseuds/autumnalbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'll go on adventures," Mycroft told him quietly. "And you'll find your buried treasure and you'll go far, far away."</p><p>Sherlock turned back toward him, eyes red and puffy. "Do you think so?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year 0

**Author's Note:**

> So, the idea here is that each chapter is a different scene of Sherlock's life from Mycroft's POV, all the way up until 'present day' in the BBC timeline. The chapters can stand alone, but there is an overall story and theme, too. Tags and ratings will be updated as chapters are posted, and, yes, there will eventually be some potential triggers, so do keep an eye on those.
> 
> This is my first time posting fanfic, so hopefully it doesn't crash and burn too terribly. :)

Mycroft pulled his legs up onto the chair and folded them underneath himself. Grand-Mère was sat next to him, chatting with Mummy about the baby and cooing over him. Mycroft couldn't help but roll his eyes. It was ridiculous, really, their doting over him.  
  
The Holmeses had decided to have a home birth, much like they did with their firstborn. Unfortunately, that meant everywhere Mycroft turned, there were people asking him about the baby, and quite honestly, he didn't care whether it was 48 centimeters long or eight pounds seven ounces or any of the other ludicrous questions they asked. What did it matter? It was a _baby_ , a boring old baby that had, until now, only cried, fed, and slept in its short life. Mycroft hardly expected it to do much else for the next year. He was already dreading hearing its cries in the middle of the night and having to change its nappies when Mummy and Father weren't around. Mycroft wasn't fond of children his own age, so why would he care about some baby?  
  
It--because his parents hadn't chosen a name yet, and Mycroft refused to refer to the creature as _he_ \--stirred, and the adults started tutting and making a fuss. Mycroft rolled his eyes again and climbed out of the large chair, hoping to sneak down to the library to get a book to make the whole ordeal somewhat more bearable.  
  
"Myc, come here and see," his mother called wearily. "You haven't even looked at him."  
  
Mycroft snorted. He thought it was obvious why, but, then again, his mother wasn't nearly as bright as he was. He slowly walked over to the bed, eyes focused on the mass in his mother's arms. It had the strangest eyes--wide and discomfitting, a piercing ice blue that might have been intimidating if they didn't belong to a baby.  
  
He stood next to the bed for a few moments, looking at it with distaste, then turned toward his mother. "I've seen him. Now may I please go get a book?"  
  
Mummy smiled tiredly. "Here. Hold him."  
  
Before Mycroft could protest, the baby was transferred from her arms to Grand-Mère's to his, and he was face-to-face with it.  
  
It was heavy, much heavier than he thought an eight-pound baby should be. He had halfway expected it to cry, to demand to be returned to their mother, but it simply looked up at him with wide eyes. A black curl stuck out from the hideous hat on his head, and Mycroft stuffed it back up inside.  
  
If their mother had expected Mycroft to have a revelation, a sudden rush of emotion for the baby, she would have been disappointed. Mycroft held it until it closed its eyes again and then handed it to Grand-Mère without a word. He snuck out of the bedroom quietly and went down to the library, where his father was sitting at his desk. He looked up when Mycroft entered.  
  
"Shouldn't you be upstairs with your mother?" he grumbled.  
  
Mycroft leveled his eyes. "Shouldn't _you_?"  
  
His father covered his face with his hands and sighed. "I have to go to Paris tomorrow, Mycroft. This new foreign policy..."  
  
There was a silence in the library. Mycroft knew what this meant. He and Mummy would have to take care of the baby until he came back. And Mummy wouldn't be thrilled about that arrangement, either.  
  
"Oh," Mycroft said. There wasn't much else to say.  
  
His father rounded the desk, standing in front of his eldest son. "Don't tell your mother. Not yet."  
  
Mycroft nodded. He understood, of course. Father was doing what he had to. Mummy wouldn't, though. She'd yell, and there'd be an argument. But Father had a duty; queen and country and all that. Mycroft couldn't entirely grasp the concept, but he thought it was...decent. A good cause. Something to fight for. Very much had his father written all over it.  
  
"Good." Father smiled, then patted his back. "Pick something out, and then we'll go back upstairs."  
  
Mycroft grabbed the first book he saw and followed his father up the staircase. When they entered the bedroom again, Mummy looked much more lively and even smiled at them. Mycroft saw his father force a grin as he walked over to her.  
  
"Do we have a name yet?" he asked, gently petting the side of the baby's face as he sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
"What do you think about William?" Mummy looked up at Father tentatively. "I know you wanted his middle name to be your father's."  
  
He nodded, his eyes never leaving the baby. "Perfect."  
  
"Myc?" Mummy called, holding out a hand toward him. "Could you come here?"  
  
Mycroft did as he was told, holding his oversized copy of _Treasure Island_ in front of him like a shield. She grabbed one of his hands once he was close enough.  
  
"I know you're not fond of him yet," she started, "and I realize it'll take you some time, but I know you'll get there. And, well...we want you to give him a name, too."  
  
Mycroft blinked. What was wrong with his parents? Didn't they see how stupid they were being? He looked up at his father for support, but he only raised his eyebrows and gave him an expectant look.  
  
He turned his gaze back to his mother. "Go on," she smiled. "Anything you like."  
  
The baby suddenly opened its eyes and wiggled in his mother's arms. She fussed with readjusting him while Mycroft's brain fired on all cylinders.  
  
A name. Any name.  
  
Not something boring. Mycroft had an interesting name; a good name. They'd already chosen boring names for it. The baby needed something _interesting_ \--  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
His parents turned to look at him, their faces a mixture of curiosity and surprise. "Where did you hear that name?" his father asked after a moment with a chuckle.  
  
Mycroft shrugged. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter.  
  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," his mother said contemplatively, looking down at the baby. "I think it's perfect." She smiled and looked up at Mycroft's smile, who nodded his approval and matched her grin with his own. "Little William," she sighed happily, brushing the baby's cheek with a finger.  
  
In that instant, Mycroft decided he would never call the baby William.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. Also, I'm looking for a better title, so if you've got any ideas that'd be brilliant!


	2. Year 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd; all mistakes are mine. Bit of a short chapter this time, but the next one should be longer.

The baby's blue-gray eyes stared up at him from his spot on the sofa. He was gnawing on a rattle. Mycroft frowned as drool slid down the annoying plastic toy and onto Sherlock's hand. _Ew_.  
  
It was the first time Mycroft had been left alone with Sherlock, and it was rather intimidating. Not that he was afraid of a baby; he just hadn't been around Sherlock very much during the first year of his life. He purposefully spent most of his days hidden in the library, where Sherlock wasn't allowed to crawl and explore. It was his safe haven. But now Mummy and Father were out. _On a date_. They never went on dates, not even B.S.--before Sherlock.

That's what their lives had become: before and after Sherlock.  
  
For whatever reason, the baby had grown rather fond of his elder brother without having seen much of him. Mycroft didn't understand it. Why would he like someone he hardly ever saw? It would make more sense for Sherlock to hate him. Nonetheless, whenever he had a rare opportunity to spend time with his big brother, Sherlock took advantage of it.  
  
As if on cue, when the front door shut behind their parents, Sherlock slid off the couch and dropped his rattle before crawling over to Mycroft's chair, grabbing onto his leg with both hands. "Myc!" he squealed excitedly.  
  
Sherlock's vocabulary was large for his age. He knew at least twenty words and was able to communicate his thoughts well enough for those around him to understand. But his favorite word--besides "no"--was "Myc." Everything was Myc: his stuffed bee plush; the neighbor across the street; and, most frequently, his brother.  
  
Mycroft looked down at Sherlock and froze. What was he supposed to do? Say something back? Pick him up?  
  
Sherlock ended up doing the work for him. He dug his hands into Mycroft's thighs and tried to climb up onto his lap, making small grunts and whines when he couldn't do it and instead fell back onto the floor. Catching the hint, Mycroft awkwardly bent down and picked him up, placing him on his lap and then returning to his book without a word.  
  
"Myc!"  
  
Sherlock bounced on Mycroft's lap, trying to get his attention. Mycroft scowled and continued reading.  
  
Halfway through a sentence, the book mysteriously ended up on the floor with a loud _smack_ , and Sherlock was smiling up at him with a mischievous grin.  
  
"Little prat," Mycroft mumbled, setting Sherlock on the ground so he could pick up his book. The minute Sherlock's bum touched the floor, however, he let out a high-pitched scream and reached for his brother, tears welling in his eyes.  
  
"Oh, for god's sake!" Mycroft picked Sherlock up again and sat him in his lap, which quieted him immediately and brought a smile to his bright-red face. "What do you want?"  
  
Sherlock giggled and collapsed on his brother's chest. "Myc! Bee!"  
  
"I'm not a bee, stupid," he sighed. "Can't you talk like a normal person?"  
  
Mycroft knew he was being ridiculous. He just wanted to be angry with this baby, this... _creature_ that had messed up the past year for him. Mummy and Father hardly paid much attention to him anymore; it was always "Sherlock this" and "Sherlock that," and Mycroft was sick of it. Sherlock wasn't even a pretty baby or did anything halfway spectacular. Mycroft was certain that he was speaking in full sentences at Sherlock's age, no matter what Mummy said.  
  
There was a tug at his shirt. "Bee!" Sherlock demanded, more forcefully this time and with a desperate look on his face. "Bee! Myc! Bee!"  
  
"Get it yourself," Mycroft grumbled, about to set Sherlock on the floor again before remembering his mistake last time. He sighed loudly to let Sherlock know just how much effort he was going to have to put into this and held the baby clumsily on his hip, like he'd seen Mummy do so many times before.  
  
Sherlock wiggled at the uncomfortable position and whined. Mycroft tried to adjust him, but gave up and just held him in front of his chest like he had to when Sherlock was much younger and hardly able to keep his head up. Sherlock didn't like this position, either, and wrangled his way out of Mycroft's arms completely, leading the way to his bedroom at a warp-speed crawl.  
  
"Up!" he demanded once he reached the gated stairs. (Unfortunately, "please" was not one of the words in his vocabulary yet.) Mycroft struggled to pick him up again as he walked through the baby gate and took the stairs slowly. Once they reached the second floor, Mycroft set Sherlock down again to give his arms a rest, and Sherlock sped toward his room.  
  
Mycroft thought they must have spent an hour looking for that stupid bee, but it wasn't in Sherlock's room at all. They made their way into each room of the house, checking every nook and cranny and bee-shaped space they could find. Sherlock became cranky after the first few rooms, and by the time they ended up back in the living room, both Holmes children were exhausted.  
  
Mycroft collapsed on the sofa with a sigh. "Looks like you've really lost it, idiot."  
  
Sherlock shuffled around on the floor next to the sofa, out of Mycroft's sight save for one unruly curl that stuck up over the edge of the furniture.  
  
"Bee!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together.  
  
"Yes," Mycroft moaned, "you've said it a million times, but it won't make it appear."  
  
Sherlock crawled back to the edge of the sofa and slowly pulled himself upright using the cushions as a balance. He thrust a large stuffed sphere into Mycroft's face, nearly smothering him.  
  
"Bee!" Sherlock repeated gleefully with a giggle.  
  
Mycroft looked from the bee to Sherlock to under the sofa where, oddly enough, the bee could easily have ended up. "You are impossible," he sighed, resting a hand on his brother's head.


	3. Year 2

For the most part, Mycroft didn't care for school. He thought it was a waste of his time; he was already smarter than the rest of his classmates, but his parents refused to allow him to jump a couple of years in order to finish early. Something about giving him a normal childhood. Whatever the reason, it didn't make any sense to him, and it only made him realize how ridiculous his parents were.  
  
Still, any time he received a perfect mark on an assignment that had been especially difficult, he had to brag about it to someone. More often than not it was his brother, but sometimes the news was just too important for Sherlock's ears alone.  
  
Mycroft had worked hard on his most recent project. It was a 3-D model of London, complete with Big Ben and Westminster Abbey and double-decker red buses and Piccadilly Circus' huge billboards and everything else that one could think of when envisioning the city. He had spent hours on the diorama, determined to outdo everyone else in his class and earn a perfect mark.  
  
And he did. No one else had even bothered to put as much detail into their projects. Mycroft was sort of disappointed, really. What was the point if his competitors didn't even put forth an effort?  
  
Well, whatever. He had the highest mark in his class, and he was determined to show Mummy and Father just how much all his hard work had paid off.  
  
Mycroft patiently waited until dinner to tell his parents the good news. Father wouldn't have listened otherwise, and Mummy would have only murmured congratulations while she was busy changing Sherlock's nappy or talking to Sherlock or playing with Sherlock or any of the other things she did with Sherlock.  
  
He wasn't stupid. Mycroft knew when people were playing favorites, and he could tell that Sherlock had become Mummy's. It didn't bother him; it only meant that Sherlock was going to be doted on for the rest of his life. Mycroft hated it when Mummy hovered over him, so he was glad there would be someone else to take his place. Even if he was secretly a bit upset that he wasn't "favorite material."  
  
Mummy had made ham that night. He liked ham, especially the way she made it. The table was covered with the perfect victory dinner, and Mycroft was anxious for the right time to tell everyone about his project.  
  
"Yucky," Sherlock frowned, slamming his fist on his slice of ham. "Yucky yucky yucky."  
  
Well, it would have been the perfect victory dinner, if _someone_ hadn't been at the table.  
  
"Don't hit your food, dear," Mummy tutted. She walked over to Sherlock's high chair and tore the large slice into smaller pieces, handing them to Sherlock one at a time. He smiled up at her happily and ate them without complaint.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. Mummy returned to her chair and everyone started eating again--except for Sherlock. He didn't eat, but he stared across the table at Father, almost daring him to say something.  
  
Mummy was the one who did, though. "So how was your day at school, Myc?"  
  
Here it was: his golden opportunity. Mycroft smiled. "Well, actually, I--"  
  
"Yucky!"  
  
All of a sudden, potatoes were flying across the room. One landed on Father's plate. Another nearly knocked over the vase on the buffet. By the time their mother had gotten up to stop Sherlock, one last potato was launched--and hit the side of Mycroft's face.  
  
He glared at Sherlock and wiped the potato off his cheek as Mummy gave Sherlock a scolding. The two-year-old only smiled widely at Mycroft as his food was taken away and a new tray, one with no possible projectiles, was placed in front of him.  
  
Finally, when Sherlock was sated, Mummy sat back down. "What were you saying, dear?" she asked as she cut into her own food.  
  
Mycroft straightened up in his chair. "Well, I was going to say that I got--"  
  
"Mummy! Mummy, look!"  
  
Sherlock had smeared puréed carrots all over his face. He was looking at their mother with a huge, one-toothed smile, smacking his palms on the table. Mycroft stared daggers at his brother, who didn't even look his way and instead giggled at Mummy.  
  
She smiled. "You look lovely, Sherly. Now let your brother speak."  
  
"I was saying," Mycroft said quickly, "that I got a perfect mark on my--"  
  
"Did you hear about Somoza Debayle, Violet?" their father asked, finally speaking for the first time all dinner.  
  
"No, I didn't. What happened?"  
  
"The Sandinistas ran him out of Nicaragua," Mycroft answered quickly. "Now, as I was saying--"  
  
Mummy raised her eyebrows. "Oh, did they?  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. He couldn't care less about presidents or governments or any of that nonsense, even if he did steal Father's newspaper and read the headlines every morning. His project was more important, at least at the moment. "Yes, they did, but you know what's even more interesting? The fact that I--"  
  
"Mummy, I want cake," Sherlock whined, wiggling in his seat impatiently.  
  
"Of course, dear." She stood up and walked over to Sherlock, wiping the carrot off his face with a towel before taking his tray away.  
  
"He's just trying to interrupt me!" Mycroft blurted. "He doesn't want me to tell you that I--"  
  
"Oh, Myc, you know he's just a baby," Mummy tutted as she walked back into the dining room with a small slice of cake. "He doesn't know he's interrupting you." She placed the cake in front of Sherlock, who then dug his hands into it and shoved fistfulls into his mouth.  
  
"Not a baby," he mumbled, mouth full of cake.  
  
Yes, he is!" Mycroft whined, ignoring his brother. Why couldn't Mummy see it? "He's--"  
  
Suddenly, Father's chair skidded back from the table, scraping against the wood floor. "Mycroft," he warned cooly.  
  
Mycroft's head snapped immediately to the empty chair in front of him. "Sorry, sir," he grumbled.  
  
His father left the table, food half-eaten, and kissed Mummy on the cheek before going back to his office. Mycroft hadn't even touched his food, and now he definitely didn't have any desire to.  
  
"May I be excused?" he asked glumly as Mummy pulled Sherlock out of his chair. She wiped the white frosting off his mouth and hands, making him giggle and smile--at least, until he looked over at Mycroft.  
  
"Myc, you've hardly eaten," she frowned.  
  
"I'm not hungry," he lied.  
  
She gave him a long look before setting Sherlock on the floor. "All right, sweetie. You're excused."  
  
Mycroft walked toward the library, ignoring the tottering, awkward footsteps behind him. He sighed before sitting in his chair and grabbing the nearest book, and after he'd gotten himself settled he saw big, light blue eyes looking up at him from the floor.  
  
"Go away," he mumbled, opening the book and effectively blocking Sherlock from view. "You ruined everything."  
  
"Myc."  
  
"Go. Away."  
  
Sherlock moved to one side of the chair, where Mycroft's book wouldn't keep him from his brother's sight. His eyes were pink, as though he was going to cry, and he pulled on Mycroft's sleeve gently.  
  
"Myc," he repeated.  
  
Mycroft stared at his brother for a minute, then put the book down and picked him up. Sherlock put his arms around his neck, offering an olive branch and an apology. He might not have ever said the words "I'm sorry" before, but he was showing his remorse, which was more than he'd ever done before.  
  
Although Mycroft wasn't fond of hugs and usually pushed the hugger away, for whatever reason he pulled Sherlock close and held him tightly. "I got perfect marks on my project," he told him quietly.  
  
Sherlock didn't say anything. He just sat on Mycroft's lap until he fell asleep in his brother's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd; mistakes are all mine.
> 
> As a disclaimer, I know nothing about the Sandinistas or Anastasio Somoza Debayle outside a simple Google search for major world events in 1979. Thanks, American educational system!
> 
> Also, genuine thanks to [RelyaLestrange](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RelyaLestrange/pseuds/RelyaLestrange) for helping me sort out the general plot for this chapter. :)


	4. Year 3

It was a decent night. The sun had just set, and there was a hazy orange and pink glow on the horizon. It wasn't hot, but the humidity in the air made Mycroft's shirt stick to his back, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on all the children's faces.  
  
Mycroft didn't even understand why they were at Aunt Alice's house. Family reunions seemed a waste of time. All they did was sit and talk and eat, and Mycroft, although he was the oldest of the children, was treated like a normal ten-year-old by the rest of the family. They even made him sit at the kid's table, and he was smarter than most of the adults.  
  
They had told the ten or so children to go outside and play. Mycroft had, of course, argued that he was enough of an adult to stay inside and read instead. The adults, stupid as they were, told him he was still too young for their conversation, and, when Mycroft had looked toward Mummy for support, she only agreed with them.  
  
Betrayed by his own mother.  
  
While his cousins were running around the yard, attempting to catch glowworms and fireflies in empty jam jars, Mycroft sat on the steps up to the house, watching them with a frown. He didn't care for insects, and he especially didn't care for chasing them around. He could read all he wanted about bioluminescent bugs; he had no desire to investigate them himself.  
  
There was laughter from inside the house--deep, hearty chuckles that could only have been from one person.  
  
Mycroft thought Uncle Mark should have sat at the kids' table instead of him. He was obnoxious, loud, and told jokes that made Father laugh and Mummy blush. Mycroft never understood the punchline, but he would if someone had explained it to him.  
  
Of course, no one ever did, and Mycroft hated Uncle Mark all the more for it.  
  
"Imbeciles," he mumbled, resting his chin on his knees.  
  
The sun was completely hidden, and the light above the porch flicked on, revealing just how many frightening-looking things were flitting around. It didn't help much, though. There was a good portion of the backyard completely covered in darkness, and Mycroft couldn't even make out the small pond on the very edge of the property no matter how hard he tried.  
  
Once or twice he caught a glimpse of pale skin and white shirt, separated from the laughter of the other children. But Mycroft didn't smile when it flashed by. Not a bit.  
  
There were a few faint glows of light off in the distance, and he heard several of the children gasp and run towards them.  
  
Idiots. If they were going to chase something, they should at least sneak up on it.  
  
"Not interested in bug-catching?"  
  
Mycroft turned around. Father smiled down at him as he sat next to him with a sigh, holding a wine glass in one hand. "Can't blame you. Wasn't my thing, either."  
  
"It's gross out here," Mycroft mumbled. He felt sticky and sweaty and just all-around disgusting. "When are we going home?"  
  
"You know the answer to that." His father took a swig of his wine. "Tomorrow morning."  
  
Mycroft frowned; it wasn't soon enough. "Why do I always have to be with the children? I'm not a child anymore."  
  
Father laughed. "Tell that to your mother."  
  
_Of course_ it was Mummy's idea. Who else would it have been? "Then tell her I'm an adult."

His father stared at him for a long minute before putting his hand on Mycroft's back. "Look, son, I know that you're brilliant. And so does everyone else. Actually, you're probably brighter than most of the adults in that house. But the thing is, sometimes, no matter how smart you are, you just--"  
  
"Myc!"  
  
Their attention turned directly in front of them. Sherlock was toddling up the steps, holding a jar of flickering lights in front of him. "Look! I caught 'flies."  
  
"Fireflies," Mycroft corrected.  
  
"Fireflies," Sherlock repeated slowly.  
  
Father smiled. "How many do you have there, Sherlock?"  
  
He stared at his jar for a long time, jabbing his finger at each bug and silently counting them at a snail's pace. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You have--"  
  
"Shh." Father put a hand in front of him to silence him. "Let him count."  
  
"Five!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, looking up at them with a proud smile and bright eyes.  
  
"Good job." Father ruffled his curls and stood up. "You two try to have fun."  
  
Sherlock immediately took their father's spot and stared at his jar for a moment before pushing it directly in front of Mycroft's face.  
  
He batted Sherlock's arm away. "I can see them just fine from there, thanks."  
  
"No." Sherlock looked up at Mycroft. "They're for you."  
  
"What?"  
  
Sherlock gave him a blank stare. "I caught them for you."  
  
Mycroft blinked. Was Sherlock offering him a gift? Granted, it wasn't something he wanted in the least, but... "Why?"  
  
"I like bugs," Sherlock mumbled.  
  
"I can see that." Mycroft looked at the fireflies with disgust, then back at Sherlock. "You keep them."  
  
"But they're yours. I caught them for you." Sherlock held the jar out again, a disappointed frown on his face.  
  
"And I'm telling you to keep them." Mycroft stood, brushing off his shorts. If Father could pop in and out of the house, so would he. Besides, Sherlock giving gifts was a bit too weird for him. "I'm going inside."  
  
"No." Sherlock jumped to his feet and stood in front of Mycroft, instantly forgetting about his gift. "Catch 'flies with me."  
  
Mycroft could think of several very good reasons not to--even more, if he added the fact that it was Sherlock who was asking. "Get one of your cousins to do it with you."  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "They're stupid."  
  
"And I'm not?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"No."  
  
As far as Sherlockian compliments went, that took the cake. Sherlock called everyone stupid--their cousins, their parents, their neighbors--so the fact that he didn't think Mycroft was stupid was, well, interesting. Actually, the fact that Sherlock was being so nice to him was interesting.  
  
Not heartwarming. Interesting. Mycroft made that distinction clear in his mind.  
  
Apparently it took him a moment too long.  
  
"Are you going to come or not?" Sherlock whined.  
  
"Yes," Mycroft heard himself saying. He let Sherlock lead him to the pond, and Sherlock released the five bugs from his jar. As they flew away, several more lit up from between the tall fronds at the edge, and Sherlock immediately squatted on his haunches, pulling Mycroft down with him.  
  
"What are we doing?" Mycroft complained. "They're--"  
  
"Shh!" Sherlock stared intently at the plants in front of him. "Don't scare them."  
  
"Like a jam jar flying out of the air wouldn't."  
  
Sherlock either didn't hear him or didn't understand. Either way, a light buzzed past them, and he sprang into action, chasing it for a couple of steps until he caught it between lid and jar.  
  
"Your turn." Sherlock released the bug and handed the jar to Mycroft.  
  
"I think this is more your area," he said warily.  
  
The look on Sherlock's face made Mycroft change his mind. "Oh, fine." He rolled his eyes and grabbed the container as Sherlock crouched next to him.  
  
A few moments later. Mycroft noticed a soft glow between some of the fronds. Very, very slowly, he pulled a few back and held them down with the tip of his shoe before swiftly trapping the insect inside the jar.  
  
"I did it," he murmured, looking at his prisoner with a small smile.  
  
"Myc caught a 'fly!" Sherlock giggled.  
  
The front door creaked open. "Come back in, kids!" Uncle Mark yelled. "There's cake!"  
  
As the other children ran back toward the house, Mycroft turned to Sherlock and handed him the jar. "Here."  
  
Sherlock glanced at the firefly, then looked up at his brother. "What?"  
  
"It's..." Mycroft sighed. "I caught it for you, idiot."  
  
"Oh." Sherlock frowned for a split second, then flashed Mycroft a smile before running off toward the house, clutching the jar to his chest.  
  
Leave it to Sherlock to not say thank you.  
  
Later that night, when Sherlock and Mycroft went to their shared bed in one of the guest rooms, Sherlock refused to use the nightlight in the corner of the room. Instead, he put his firefly on the table next to the bed and fell asleep watching it flutter inside the jar.  
  
Mycroft pretended not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill. Unbeta'd, etc. etc.
> 
> Thanks again to RelyaLestrange for helping me get over my writer's block!
> 
> So, in case you didn't notice (and since it's easy to miss), this is now part of a series. The second work, Brother Mine, is basically a collection of chapters that aren't quite long enough or don't have the plot I wanted for this fic. The first one is set shortly after this chapter and was the first thing I wrote for this storyline, so I was sort of loathe to part with it although it no longer fits. Brother Mine will be updated on the same day as Baby Brother, but there won't be an update every single week. It's mostly fluff and cuteness in 500-word doses, so if that's your thing, have a look! :)


	5. Year 4

Mycroft felt a small tug on his trousers. He looked down from his book to find his brother staring up at him, eyes shining.  
  
"Bath time," he smiled.  
  
Sherlock loved his baths. Mycroft wasn't entirely certain why; he hadn't been very fond of them himself when he was Sherlock's age, and yet every day, without fail, at six p.m. the younger Holmes brother would remind whoever happened to be watching him that he needed to be bathed. Sherlock could just barely tell time, but he still used it to his advantage.  
  
Mycroft sighed. He knew he was the only other person in the house, so it was his turn to give Sherlock a bath. He set his book town on the table next to his favorite chair and took Sherlock's hand. They walked up the stairs to the bathroom before Mycroft got tired of Sherlock's slow pace and picked him up, holding him on his hip. He was a tall child, but skinny enough that his weight was just below average and thus made it easier for him to be carried--although he put up a rather big fight and struggled in Mycroft's arms.  
  
Three doors before they reached the bathroom, Sherlock wiggled his way to the floor and ran to the door, opening it and rushing inside. By the time Mycroft caught up, Sherlock's shirt was pulled up and covering his face, his arms stuck up in the air.  
  
"Myc," he whined, flapping his arms.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You should have waited, idiot." He bent down and pulled the shirt up off of his brother and began undressing the rest of him as Sherlock bounced in anticipation.  
  
"Bathbathbathbathbathbathbathbath," Sherlock repeated.  
  
"Yes, I heard you. Bath. I know you can speak in full sentences; why don't you try doing that now?" Mycroft turned on the tap, twisting the knobs just so to get the appropriate temperature. Sherlock was incredibly fussy about his bath water.  
  
"I need Dorsie," Sherlock chided, complying with Mycroft's demand--for the moment. He sighed and picked up a rubber duck that looked rather like a bee. (Mycroft did not know who was being consulted on these ludicrous toy ideas, but he knew they should be out of a job.) He handed it to Sherlock, who started bouncing again. "Bathbathbathbathbathbathbath--"  
  
"Yes, yes, in you go." Mycroft pulled Sherlock up by his armpits and gently sat him down in the water, which immediately turned his babbling into giggles. He set his rubber duck free as he splashed the water with his hands, getting some on Mycroft's shirt and earning him a scowl. Sherlock didn't notice.  
  
Mycroft pulled the bottle of bubble bath from the cart under the sink and poured a liberal amount near the faucet. Mummy and Father always gave Sherlock the least amount of bubbles possible, but Mycroft tended to be more generous. Sherlock always said his brother gave the best baths because he used more bubbles.  
  
Sherlock giggled as the bath quickly filled with suds. He tried catching some between his hands and promptly smeared a handful onto Mycroft's shirt, making it more wet than it had been previously.  
  
"Better," he said matter-of-factly, "but still ugly."  
  
Mycroft looked with initial disgust at his school shirt, but then saw his brother's wide grin and smiled slightly. He grabbed the washcloth from the side of the sink and dipped it into the water, gently plopping a pile of bubbles on top of Sherlock's head.  
  
"Myc?" Sherlock asked suddenly, looking up at his big brother with wide eyes.  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Where's Father?"  
  
Mycroft froze, his hand still submerged under the mountain of suds. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Sherlock the truth, that Father had stormed out last night and Mummy had been crying and he didn't really understand why, either, but it didn't seem right and--  
  
"He's gone away on a trip."  
  
Sherlock nodded, seemingly content. Mycroft hadn't lied to Sherlock before, so there was no reason for him to suspect that he was lying now. Sherlock picked up his toy and began making it hop on the massive pile of bubbles, letting it go occasionally and squealing when he looked down and saw that it was floating on top of the water at the very bottom.  
  
Mycroft let him play as he carefully washed his curls, keeping the water and soap from getting into his eyes by cupping a hand on his forehead. Every once in a while, Sherlock would tilt his head back to look up at him with a smile, and Mycroft would smile back. Sherlock would then go back to his weird bee-duck, and Mycroft would continue washing him.  
  
Eventually the water became room temperature again, and the mountain of bubbles became merely foam. Sherlock was still content to sit in the lukewarm bath and play, but Mycroft knew it was nearing his bedtime. He hoisted Sherlock out of the bath and stood him up on the bath mat.  
  
"But I wasn't done!" he complained, crossing his arms both in defiance and to keep warm against the cool rush of air.  
  
Mycroft wrapped a towel around him. "Well, you are now," he said, not unkindly. He carefully dried Sherlock off, rubbing his hair into a mass of tangles and helping him into a set of pajamas.  
  
Sherlock insisted he could do it himself, when, of course, he fell onto his bum while trying to get his foot into one leg of his bottoms. He frowned and shoved Mycroft's hand away when he reached out to help and tried again, this time managing to get the stretchy cotton to cooperate. He grinned up at his brother proudly and yawned.  
  
"Precisely why you are going to bed," Mycroft said, taking his hand.  
  
"Not tired," Sherlock protested, bouncing after Mycroft as he followed him. "I'm not tired, Myc!"  
  
Mycroft knew that wasn't true; had Sherlock actually not been tired, he would have put up much more of a fuss about being led to his bedroom. But he knew when to pick his battles with his brother, and this was not the time.  
  
Sherlock crawled into his bed of his own volition, not to Mycroft's surprise. He snuggled under the duvet, pulling the sheets up to his face. Mycroft flicked on the nightlight and headed for the door, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't--  
  
"You have to read me a story."  
  
\--say that.  
  
Mycroft sighed. "You're tired, Sherlock. You don't need a story."  
  
"Yes, I do." Sherlock looked at Mycroft smugly. "I want the one about Max again."  
  
"You can read it yourself. It's on your level."  
  
Sherlock scoffed--an expression he had learned to perfect from mimicking his elder brother. "But _you're_ supposed to read it," he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
"Fine." Mycroft rolled his eyes and picked up the book from the book box at the foot of Sherlock's bed. "But only because it is _so_ incredibly easy to read that it will take two hours less time for me to read it than you."  
  
Sherlock harrumphed and crossed his arms. He was good at reading, and Mycroft knew it. Still, he had his own book to read, and he'd get in trouble if Sherlock woke up cranky--well, _crankier_ \--from lack of sleep.  
  
Mycroft sighed and sat in the rocking chair next to the bed. Sherlock shifted closer to his brother, eyes glued to the book as Mycroft flipped to the first page.  
  
"'The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another his mother called him "Wild Thing"...'"  
  
Mycroft hadn't even gotten to the wild rumpus before Sherlock was asleep. He quietly set the book on the rocking chair and flicked off the lights before leaving the room.  
  
He wasn't smiling, of course. Not one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, as usual.
> 
> The scene where Mycroft reads "Where the Wild Things Are" was inspired by my sister, who read it to me all the time when I was Sherlock's age. I don't know how popular it was outside the States in the late 70s/early 80s, but that's when she first read it as a kid, so I figured it would at least fit the timeline.
> 
> There may not be an update next week. I'm reorganizing the order of the next few chapters and pulling some out of the storyline altogether, so until I have everything sorted again I won't be writing or posting anything else. I'll try to get it done by next Saturday, but no guarantees. Sorry about that and thanks for putting up with me!


	6. Year 5

Sherlock's small hand caught Mycroft's in a vise grip as they walked into the classroom. Any attempt Mycroft made to loosen it only result in Sherlock squeezing harder and looking up at him with big eyes, a terrified expression on his face.  
  
Mycroft couldn't really blame him. His first day of primary school had been scary, too, but he knew Sherlock had a better chance of making friends than he did. At least, that's what he hoped.  
  
Usually, Mycroft walked to school on his own, but because it was Sherlock's first day, Mummy had driven them and even walked inside with them. She'd offered to carry Sherlock, but he refused and instead clung to Mycroft for dear life, as though the other children, who were running rampant around the room, were going to kill him.  
  
Mummy walked straight over to the teacher, chatting about break time and nap time and other times that didn't really matter. Mycroft tried to follow her, but Sherlock stood stone still and looked at the bright room, stunned. Each wall was a different color, and the carpet was a vibrant blue. There was a miniature play kitchen in one corner and a huge dollhouse in another, both of which were a strange shade of pastel pink that had obviously seen better days. Compared to home, where there was no chaos or mess or other children around or even just _color_ , it was a sensory nightmare. Even Mycroft got a bit of a headache just looking around the place.  
  
Still, he knew Sherlock was going to be a bawling mess unless he did something to soothe his nerves. He squeezed his little brother's hand gently. _You'll be okay._  
  
Over the last year, they'd developed a way of talking to each other without actually speaking. It wasn't telekinesis; Mycroft was too smart to believe in any of that. This was something different, something that he was sure only they had. They were two brilliant children in a world full of idiots, so it only made sense that they had their own language. Sometimes it'd be an expression, or a look, or even just a blink. Mycroft was better at reading it than Sherlock, but the youngest Holmes child was getting there. Slowly.  
  
Sherlock looked up at his brother, doubt and worry on his face. _I don't like it here._  
  
Mycroft attempted a small smile. _You don't know that yet._ He didn't really believe it himself, but he wouldn't let Sherlock get discouraged before he really even knew what was happening.  
  
There was a clatter on the other side of the room as one of the larger boys had knocked over a plate of plastic food. Sherlock's eyes were trained on the boy as the teacher told him to clean it up. He whipped around and looked at Mycroft, whining. _They won't like me._  
  
A girl, much smaller than Sherlock, toddled over to them. "Wanna play?" she asked, holding out a hand.  
  
Sherlock immediately ran behind Mycroft, wrapping his arms around his brother's thigh. Mycroft sighed and patted his head. _Go on. Play with her._  
  
Slowly, Sherlock released his grip and walked over to the girl, keeping a good two feet between them.  
  
"I'm Rachel," she said with a smile.  
  
Sherlock's reply was so quiet Mycroft could barely hear him. "Your parents died."  
  
Rachel was silent for a split second, then burst into tears. Mycroft quickly pulled Sherlock aside and bent down to talk to him as the teacher and Mummy rushed over to comfort the little girl.  
  
"You can't do that," he said. "You can't tell them what you see."  
  
"But it was obvious," Sherlock mumbled. "Her hair was--"  
  
"To us, yes, it was obvious." Mycroft cast a glance toward the girl, then back at Sherlock. He remembered the first time it had happened to him. No one had been around to tell him it was wrong. They'd just looked at him like he was mean, like he was a freak. He wouldn't let that happen to Sherlock. "But not to everyone else. People get upset when you tell them things they don't want to hear. And you were wrong, anyway--it was only the mother."  
  
"She had to know, though," Sherlock protested, pointing at the girl. "She had to know already. Why did she cry?"  
  
"Not everyone wants it pointed out." He brushed a curl out of Sherlock's face.  
  
"Then what am I 'sposed to do?" Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, completely lost. "How am I 'sposed to talk to them if they don't want to listen?"  
  
Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a moment. He didn't have an answer for that. It was something he was still struggling with, too. He'd given up entirely on talking to other people--unless he needed something, of course, and then he just made threats--but Sherlock wasn't like that. He couldn't get away with it. And Mycroft _wanted_ him to have friends. He didn't want Sherlock to end up reading in the corner like he always did, lonely and sad.  
  
"If you have to say something, tell them what they want to hear," he said finally. "Just--tell them what they want to know."  
  
"That would be lying," Sherlock replied after a minute.  
  
In his peripheral vision, Mycroft saw Mummy waving at him impatiently. It was time for his own class. He turned back to Sherlock.  
  
Out of options, he sighed and looked at Sherlock seriously. "Then don't talk to them at all," he said quickly, pulling his brother close for a hug before leaving.  
  
Mycroft didn't look back. It was a good thing. If he did, Sherlock's face would have made him want to take his brother away from the noise and the colors and the people and hide him away forever and ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> And so begins the angsty phase of the story. Sorry about the wait; getting things organized took longer than I'd expected. There should be regular weekly updates from now on. :)


	7. Year 6

Mycroft hated beaches.  
  
He hated how the sand got in his shoes and between his toes. He hated the briny, sour smell of the sea. He hated how the wind would flutter the pages of his book and make him lose his place. He hated how people looked at him, a thirteen-year-old boy who didn't want to go swimming and instead chose to read on the beach. He hated how they stared at his brother, wondering where their parents were and why they weren't with them.  
  
Today, however, the beach behind the manor house was barren save for the family three houses down, but they were too far away to hear or properly see. Mummy and Father had gone to Paris for the day, leaving Mycroft to take care of Sherlock while they were gone.  
  
Amongst the other things he hated, France was also on Mycroft's list. Not for any reason in particular; its downfall in his mind was that it wasn't England. The weather was warmer, and Mycroft missed the cool days in London before he was hauled off to France every summer.  
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, loved it. He already spoke French just as well as any French-born child and thought the weather was brilliant. There were very few days when he wasn't out on the beach, examining whatever had washed up with the tide that day. Once he had even asked Mycroft if he could keep a sample of some rotting kelp, to which his answer was a resounding no.  
  
There was nothing washed on the beach today, to Sherlock's disappointment. Instead, he was playing with a kite their parents had bought him in the small town a mile from their house. They had bought one for Mycroft, as well, but he thought they were foolish and refused to even unfold it.  
  
Sherlock's kite was rectangular, with bright orange and blue squares on the body and red tails almost as long as he was. The wind was decent enough, so once he started running alongside the shoreline, the kite lifted up off the ground and sailed steadily. He kept the strings taut, as Mycroft had showed him the first time he'd taken the kite out a couple of days ago. Mycroft could faintly hear his laughter over the sound of the tide crashing into the beach, and more than once did Sherlock get his feet wet by straying too far into the wake.  
  
Suddenly, the kite fell to the ground, and Sherlock ran to get it, winding the lines up as he went. He picked it up and shook off the sand before running over to Mycroft and plopping down next to him.  
  
"Already done?"  
  
Sherlock had a habit of only replying in French when they were in the country. " _Je suis fatigué. Le vent est trop fort._ "  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "The wind isn't that bad."  
  
" _Fais-le toi-même, alors._ " Sherlock complained, handing the kite's handles to Mycroft.  
  
"I'm reading." Mycroft held up his book testily. "It's more important than flying kites."  
  
Sherlock grinned triumphantly. " _Je suppose que ça signifie que tu n'es pas capable._ "  
  
"I can," Mycroft snorted. "I just don't want to."  
  
" _Bien sûr_ ," Sherlock shrugged.  
  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He knew precisely what Sherlock was doing, because he had taught him how to do it himself. "I _can_."  
  
Sherlock snatched the book from Mycroft's hands and tossed it across the beach, far enough that he'd have to stand up to get it, but not too far for the tide to reach it. He turned back and grinned. " _Prouves-le_."  
  
With a huff, Mycroft stood up and walked after his book before sitting back down on his towel. "Rude," he said harshly, smacking Sherlock on the head (albeit gently) before cracking it open again and trying to find his page. "Don't throw books."  
  
"'The History of British Politicians,'" Sherlock read, holding the front cover up so he could see the title. "Ugh, _ennuyeux_."  
  
"It's not boring unless you make it that way," Mycroft said, not looking off the page.  
  
" _Tout ce qui te plaît est ennuyeux._ " Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest with a shiver. It was starting to get a bit cold, and he was only wearing shorts and a loose shirt.  
  
"You think anything that's still alive is boring, anyway," Mycroft scoffed. "Your opinion hardly matters." Still, he grabbed a towel from the beach bag next to him and handed it to Sherlock, who then wrapped it around himself.  
  
They were silent for a few moments, Sherlock looking out onto the sea while Mycroft read. A cluster of boats appeared not too far off the horizon, and Sherlock perked up. " _Je veux faire de la voile._ "  
  
"Ask Mummy," Mycroft said absently. "She'll probably set up sailing lessons for you."  
  
" _Non_." Sherlock shook his head and turned toward Mycroft with bright eyes. " _Je veux être un pirate._ "  
  
Mycroft looked up at Sherlock. "A pirate?" he laughed. "Why do you want to be a pirate?"  
  
Sherlock thought for a long moment before replying. " _Je veux partir à l'aventure et trouver des trésors enfouis et aller loin, très loin où personne peut me trouver et je m'en ficherai parce que je vais avoir mon bateau et mon trésor et c'est tout ce qui importe._ "  
  
Mycroft stared at Sherlock. "You can go on adventures and find buried treasure and go far away without having to be a pirate."  
  
"But I want to," Sherlock whined. It was the first time he'd spoken English since they'd arrived. "I want to go far, far away and go on adventures because it's so boring here, Myc--even in London--and I want to find buried treasure because treasure is only good if you have to find it and I want to go on adventures because if I just stay here and do nothing..." He turned back around, facing the sea and closing his eyes as he pulled the towel tighter around himself.  
  
Sherlock had grown up a quite lot in the year since he'd started primary. Within two weeks of being in class, his parents had been called in for a meeting with the teacher. She'd advised them to get Sherlock tested. Mycroft thought it was stupid; everyone knew Sherlock was a genius. There wasn't any reason for him to be tested--it was obvious.  
  
But apparently that hadn't been the sort of testing she'd meant. She meant the kind with psychologists and therapy and people who thought there was something _wrong_ with Sherlock. They said he had sociopathy, and that he needed to socialize more and learn how to interact better with other children.  
  
And so he did. Mummy and Father made sure he had a play group and went to the park regularly. Sherlock had more of a social life than any of the rest of the family did. But after five months and no progress at all, they took him back to the "experts," who had instead changed their minds and decided that Sherlock's sociopathy couldn't be "fixed."  
  
Mycroft didn't like the idea of anyone "fixing" his little brother, anyway.  
  
Since then, Sherlock had been kept in a sort of homeostatic bubble. He went to school, but the play dates and park trips ended. He didn't seem to care, though; in fact, he seemed less tense after the change. But the other children still didn't want to play with him.  
  
"You'll go on adventures," Mycroft told him quietly. "And you'll find your buried treasure and you'll go far, far away."  
  
Sherlock turned back toward him, eyes red and puffy. "Do you think so?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
A moment later, Sherlock was up and flying his kite again, talking in French and seeming to have forgotten their conversation.  
  
Mycroft didn't, though. He watched his brother play, wondering what other grown-up thoughts were going on in that brain of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Sorry about the long wait. Life sort of caught up to me all at once.
> 
> Thanks to [RelyaLestrange](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RelyaLestrange/pseuds/RelyaLestrange) for helping me with my rudimentary French. :)


	8. Year 7

Why Mummy and Father thought a dog was a good idea as a birthday gift for Sherlock, Mycroft would never know. And yet, there it was, drooling all over the carpet and on his brother as though it hadn't quite got the hang of closing its mouth.  
  
Sherlock was in love with the puppy; Mycroft had seen the look on his face when he'd opened the bright green box with large air vents. He supposed it was a good thing. Maybe it would mean Sherlock would eventually make friends easier than Mycroft had.  
  
Not that Mycroft had any friends.  
  
He knew what his mother and father were doing. Sherlock's teacher had told them that he had a difficult time with empathy, and, given a creature to take care of, it would only be logical that he would develop the skill.  
  
Not to mention the fact that Sherlock didn't have any friends, either. Mummy had set up places at the table for at least ten children, but when not one showed up, she unceremoniously cleared it again while Sherlock opened his gifts. He didn't seem to mind, but whether he noticed or not was another story.  
  
"You'll have to pick out a name for him, Sherly," Mummy smiled, watching Sherlock run in circles with the puppy close behind.  
  
He stopped. "You mean I get to name him?"  
  
"Of course you do," she laughed. "He _is_ yours, isn't he?"  
  
That seemed to satisfy Sherlock, and he plopped on the floor just in time for the dog to run up and lick his face, toppling him onto his back. He giggled and rolled over as the puppy jumped off of him, wagging its tail and yapping.  
  
_God_. Another creature that made too much noise. How was Mycroft supposed to endure it all?  
  
"He should be a pirate," Sherlock said.  
  
"Good. Maybe he can take my place." Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
  
Sherlock looked up at his brother with a smile. "Nah, you'll always be first mate, Myc." He stared at the Irish setter for a minute, obviously pondering something. "He's red."  
  
Mycroft scoffed, but he kept his tone lighthearted. "And your powers of observation just get better every day."  
  
Sherlock whirled around and pointed at him. "Shut up." He turned around again, squatting on his haunches and petting the dog. "His name's Redbeard," he announced.  
  
"What a good name," Mummy said in the sweet tone she reserved only for Sherlock. She bent down and scratched the puppy behind the ears. "Redbeard."  
  
"That wasn't even his real name," Mycroft argued. "'Barbarossa' is Redbeard in Italian, and that's only from folklore because he was actually--"  
  
"Mycroft," Mummy warned. "Let Sherly have his fun."  
  
"Fine," he huffed. "Inaccurately name your stupid dog. I don't care."  
  
"He's not stupid," Sherlock replied pointedly. "Dogs are smarter than people give them credit for, and Redbeard's--"  
  
There was a _ding_ from the other room. Mummy immediately jumped up. "That must be the birthday cake," she said with a grin. "You three try to get along for a little while." She headed for the kitchen, leaving Mycroft alone with the two most insufferable creatures he could think of.  
  
He sat on the sofa and watched Sherlock play with his puppy for a while. He thought about leaving, but that would probably earn him a scolding if Mummy found out. She more than likely wouldn't like the idea of leaving Sherlock alone with the dog so early.  
  
Mycroft wondered why they had gotten Sherlock a pet, but never thought of giving him one. Well, no, he knew why. It was probably Mummy's idea, and she never would have thought of getting Mycroft a pet.  
  
Not that he wanted one, of course.  
  
In a way, he supposed Sherlock was sort of a puppy. Except he was more annoying. And liked to throw things. And had temper tantrums.  
  
On second thought, Mycroft would have preferred a puppy.  
  
The smell of chocolate cake wafted through the sitting room, and Redbeard's ears perked up at the scent. He ran into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft behind.  
  
Sherlock frowned. "I wish Father was here."  
  
"No, you don't," Mycroft said softly.  
  
"No, I don't." He turned and looked at his brother before climbing up onto the sofa and sitting next to him. "He's missing my birthday, though. He promised he'd be here."  
  
Mycroft sighed. "You know he has an important job. More important than birthdays."  
  
He could tell just in the way Sherlock looked at him that he thought differently. _He's always here for yours._  
  
_Because I'm his favorite._ Mycroft shifted in his seat. _You're Mummy's favorite._ He didn't know if he should have told Sherlock all that, but he'd always treated his little brother like an equal for the most part. Besides, Sherlock would find out sooner or later on his own. Mycroft was just speeding up the process; it was more efficient for Sherlock to learn it now.  
  
He sat in thought for a few moments before scooting closer to Mycroft. _I'm glad._  
  
It was strange how their parents had been matched up with children that were, essentially, identical to themselves. Father was certain that Mycroft would end up with a job in the government, and, to be honest, Mycroft _wanted_ a job in the government. Father said that Mycroft had the right "head" for it. Whatever that meant. He sympathized with him, too; whenever Father was away, Mycroft was always the one making excuses for him to Sherlock or his classmates or anyone else who dared question his intentions. He was a good man, Mycroft insisted. He just had a difficult job.  
  
Mummy, on the other hand, was Sherlock's counterpart. Well, sort of. He was just as smart as Mycroft and Father--or would be, anyway--but he let his emotions take over too often. Granted, it didn't happen as frequently as it did with most seven-year-olds, but it was enough for Mycroft to be able to tell the difference between his brother and himself. Once, when he was younger, he'd cried because one of his classmates broke his wooden sword. _Cried_. And there was obviously the whole puppy thing; Sherlock was positively in love with the creature. Compared to Mycroft at his age, Sherlock's emotions were running wild.  
  
Mycroft just hoped Sherlock wouldn't get hurt because of it.  
  
"Boys! The cake is ready!"  
  
Both Holmes children jumped. Apparently Sherlock had been leaning on Mycroft without his knowing, and he immediately straightened up and took off toward the kitchen, not casting his brother a second glance. Mycroft took his time. He didn't need any more taunting from his brother about his weight.  
  
"Put Redbeard on the floor, Sherly," Mummy said sweetly. The dog was sniffing all over the table, and--  
  
Had shoved its nose in the cake.  
  
Sherlock giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Mycroft groaned. The cake was the only thing he had been looking forward to that day.


	9. Year 8

As was their usual routine, Mycroft walked to Sherlock's primary school once his own classes let out for the day. It was a short walk, only fifteen minutes, and the timing was perfect: he arrived just as the Year Four students filed out of the building. He found Sherlock quickly--he was the only one who wasn't talking to a friend on their way out--and Sherlock reached up to hold his hand.  
  
"How many was it today?" Mycroft asked, leading them back toward their house.  
  
"Six." Sherlock kicked a pebble in front of him. "Miss Barton messed up on our maths homework sheet. I fixed it, though."  
  
"Idiot woman. And an even number of errors this time. Impressive."  
  
Sherlock giggled, then grew serious. "Myc?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Is the east wind real?"  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Isn't everything I tell you real?"  
  
Sherlock blinked. "Yes, but--I told this girl in my class about it, and she told Miss Barton, and Miss Barton said it wasn't real and that I was 'just being Sherlock' and--"  
  
"It is real if you want it to be, Sherlock." Mycroft's grip on his hand grew tighter, but he eased it before Sherlock said anything. He wouldn't allow his parents to even begin the lie of Santa Claus or the Easter bunny with Sherlock, but if he _wanted_ to believe in an east wind from a stupid folk story, then so be it.  
  
Both boys were silent until they arrived home. Sherlock immediately released Mycroft's hand and ran into the sitting room, throwing himself on their father's huge armchair.  
  
"Tell me the story again, Myc. Of the east wind. What is it?"  
  
Mycroft strolled over to the sofa and sat down. "You know the story. Don't play dumb; it's unbecoming."  
  
Sherlock ignored him. "Tell it to me again."  
  
Mycroft sighed loudly, but didn't push Sherlock away as he flopped onto the sofa beside him. "Over fifty years ago, when the air was just cold enough and the sea just turbulent, there was a change."  
  
"What sort of change?"  
  
This was their game. Any information Sherlock wanted, he had to ask for. Mycroft was not fond of Sherlock's constant questions when they first played, but he had learned how to direct his brother's questioning in the direction he wanted. Sherlock hadn't sorted it out yet, and Mycroft wasn't going to be the one to tell him.  
  
"The east wind."  
  
"What was the east wind?" Sherlock scooted fractionally closer to Mycroft on the sofa, apparently trying to be sneaky. He failed, of course.  
  
"A strong wind that changed everything. It separated the wheat from the chaff, and made us stronger."  
  
"So it wasn't bad?"  
  
Mycroft looked at him seriously. "It was terrible. The country--rather, the world--was in ruin."  
  
"What happened after that?" Sherlock's eyes were wide and curious, although he'd heard the story hundreds of times before.  
  
"After the wind, England became better, and stronger, and in the sunshine of--"  
  
The front door opened and shut, and heels clicked on the wood floor. "Myc, are you telling him that ridiculous story again?"  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No, Mummy, we're having a nice conversation about tea."  
  
Seconds later, a ball of red fur bounded into sight and jumped on the sofa. Sherlock giggled and pulled the dog down onto the floor with him.  
  
"Watch your tongue," their mother said half-seriously as she walked into the room, waving a finger at Mycroft. "Sherly, don't listen to your brother. He's been reading too much poetry."  
  
"I don't read poetry!" Mycroft snapped. Sherlock beamed.  
  
Mummy smiled and crouched down to pick up some of Sherlock's toys on the floor. "Of course you don't, dear."  
  
"Myc reads love poetry," Sherlock said in a sing-song voice as he ran around the room, Redbeard close behind.  
  
God, why did they always choose to be so annoying? "This entire house is insufferable," Mycroft scoffed. He stood and retreated to the library for some peace and quiet.  
  
Unfortunately, that wasn't what he found when he arrived. Father was sitting at his desk, poring over a rather thick file. He glanced up when he saw Mycroft at the door, but continued working.  
  
Mycroft knew better than to disturb him, so he headed to his own corner and selected a book from the nearest shelf at random. He had just settled into his chair when Father cleared his throat.  
  
"Actually, Mycroft, would you come here for a moment?"  
  
Without hesitation, he set the book down and walked to his father. Although he tried not to glance at the papers on the desk, it was easy to see that whatever information they carried was not good news. Father noticed the look on Mycroft's face and quickly slid the pages back into the folder and closed it.  
  
"Don't ever go into politics," Father sighed as he leaned back in his chair. "Save yourself the trouble and become a doctor or a lawyer."  
  
"I want to, though," Mycroft said quickly. "I want to help make the country better."  
  
Father laughed. "Spoken like a true politician."  
  
"Isn't that what you wanted to do?" Mycroft looked at his father warily.  
  
"I suppose so." He smiled weakly before looking back down at the paper. Something was still not right, but there wasn't enough evidence for Mycroft to tell what it was. "Just don't make my mistake. Don't let it keep you from your family."  
  
Mycroft didn't tell him he didn't want a family. He just nodded.  
  
"Good. You're a good lad, Mycroft. You'll make a good politician, if you're stupid enough to go down that path." Father grinned again, but it was genuine this time, and it made Mycroft smile back. "I've got to finish this, but maybe we'll all go out for dinner tonight. That Italian place you like."  
  
"That would be great." Mycroft took a couple steps toward his chair, then turned back around. "Father?"  
  
He was already hunched back over his desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper. "Yes?"  
  
Mycroft inhaled sharply. He wasn't much for giving compliments, but if anyone deserved one, it was his father. "I think you're a good politician, for what it's worth."  
  
Father slowly looked up from his work. "Thank you, Mycroft," he said dazedly.  
  
Minutes later, Sherlock and Redbeard stormed into the library. Sherlock was dressed in his pirate garb: hat, eyepatch, and sword. He pulled on Mycroft's arm.  
  
"Pirates. Let's go."  
  
Mycroft allowed himself to be dragged outside, prodded by wooden sword, and proceeded to walk the plank (jump off the front steps) for the ultimate crime of poetry-reading.  
  
Although he definitely didn't read _Eliot's Complete Poetry_ ; he just accidentally picked it off the shelf. Of course. 


	10. Year 9

The sobs were faint, and Mycroft wouldn't have heard them unless he hadn't been walking past Sherlock's door to get a glass of water. He wasn't even certain that they'd actually been sobs until he heard a long, shaky breath muffled only slightly by...a pillow, more than likely.  
  
Mycroft knocked on the door. When he didn't get an answer, he walked in.  
  
Sherlock was sitting upright in his bed, knees against his chest. His duvet was pulled up to his waist, and a pillow rested on top of his knees. The lamp on his nightstand was on, and Redbeard was at his feet, licking his hand in sympathy.  
  
"Sherlock?" Mycroft inquired gently. He sat down on the edge of the bed, water in hand. Redbeard adjusted so he was closer to Sherlock and nosed his muzzle under his arm.  
  
Sherlock looked up. His eyes were bright red, and his cheeks were stained with tears. He sniffled at Mycroft for a moment before burying his face back into his pillow.  
  
Of all the things Mycroft was as a teenager, "comforting" was not one of them. He had never been placed in this position before, and Sherlock had very rarely been so blatantly...emotional. He was tempted to wake Mummy up to deal with him, but a sixteen-year-old waking his mother up because his little brother was upset seemed a bad excuse.  
  
Mycroft reached out and patted Sherlock's back lightly. "What's wrong?" he asked.  
  
Sherlock mumbled something into his pillow as Redbeard licked at his ear, eliciting a slight giggle and a half-hearted shove.  
  
"I believe he wants you to speak louder," Mycroft smirked.  
  
Tears at bay for the moment, Sherlock looked up at Mycroft before throwing himself into Mycroft's arms and hugging him tightly. Mycroft sat, stunned, before resting his hands on his brother's back.  
  
They stayed like that for a while, Sherlock leaning over to reach him, Mycroft patting his back awkwardly. The position couldn't have been comfortable for Sherlock, but he didn't show any signs of wanting to move, and Mycroft wasn't going to force him to now that he was quiet.  
  
Sherlock pulled away just far enough to wipe his eyes with his pajama sleeve. "It was nothing," he mumbled. "Forget it."  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather I told Mummy?"  
  
"No!" Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "No, don't!"  
  
"Then tell me what happened."  
  
Sherlock sighed. "It was just a stupid dream. Not logical."  
  
"Illogical," Mycroft corrected. "And what was it about?"  
  
"Nothing." Sherlock yanked the duvet up to his neck and flopped onto his side, giving Mycroft his back.  
  
Something incriminating, then. Mycroft walked around to the other side of the bed and stretched out beside Sherlock, staring at the ceiling.  
  
"You know, I used to have nightmares," he said after a long while. "A long time ago," he added quickly.  
  
"You did?" Sherlock shifted on the bed so he could look at Mycroft.  
  
"I did." He sighed. "My mind betrayed me."  
  
"What did you dream about?"  
  
Mycroft shifted his weight. He'd never lie to Sherlock, but some things you just didn't tell your little brother. He turned his head slightly to look at him. "Ridiculous things. Nothing important.” He looked back at the ceiling. "The key is to grab onto something that could never be real. Then you know it is a nightmare, and it won't bother you as much."  
  
Sherlock frowned. "But what if it's so scary that you can't find anything that could never be real?"  
  
"There is always something. You being less than annoying, Mummy being rude, Father having a weekend off..."  
  
Sherlock giggled and moved fractionally closer to Mycroft. "That doesn't sound too hard."  
  
Mycroft smiled. "It isn't. If you focus on that, the rest of the dream will unravel, and you'll wake up perfectly fine."  
  
The room was quiet for so long that Mycroft thought Sherlock had fallen asleep, but when he finally spoke, it was in a soft whisper. "I dreamed you were dead."  
  
Mycroft turned to look at him. There were tears in Sherlock's eyes, and he wouldn't meet Mycroft's gaze. He scrambled for something to say, but all that would come to mind were scathing remarks about how ludicrous the dream was. Instead, he pulled Sherlock into a hug.  
  
Well, it was supposed to be a hug, but all Mycroft could really do was put an arm around Sherlock and pull him a couple of inches closer.  
  
"We were all at the house in France again," Sherlock breathed. "And Mummy and Father were gone, and you left me in the house because you had to go to the grocer's."  
  
"Mm." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "They would kill me if I left you there alone."  
  
He felt Sherlock smile against his chest. "You were gone for a really long time. I was really hungry, so I ate this gross-looking broccoli."  
  
"Another problem," Mycroft said with a grin. "You would never eat broccoli, even if you were starving."  
  
"Well, if you would have just hurried up, I wouldn't have had to!" Sherlock pouted. "Anyway, it was night, and someone rang the doorbell, so I got off the sofa and opened it, and you were--and I didn't know--" His voice caught in his throat, and Mycroft pulled him closer.  
  
"You were there," Sherlock finally continued, voice shaky. "On the floor. And no one else was there and I didn't know what to do and--and--"  
  
"Impossible," Mycroft said quickly. "The distance and time it takes to get from the sofa to the door is much shorter than the time it takes someone to ring the doorbell and hide in the bushes. You would have seen whoever did it easily. Besides, you know how Mummy is--she wouldn't have left us alone in the house for that long. So your dream was entirely implausible." Mycroft smiled slightly. "Nothing like that would have happened."  
  
Sherlock nodded uneasily and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "I guess not."  
  
They were silent for a few moments. Mycroft waited until Sherlock's breathing evened out again before pulling himself up off the bed to leave. "Goodnight, Sherlock."  
  
"No!" Sherlock reached over and grabbed Mycroft's arm, looking up at him with watery eyes. "Don't."  
  
"Alright." Mycroft leaned back onto the bed, and Sherlock shuffled up closer to him as he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "But only until you fall back asleep."  
  
Sherlock nodded, and his eyelids fluttered shut.  
  
He hadn't had any dreams this bad before. Mycroft hadn't even been certain that Sherlock had dreams at all; he certainly hadn't had nightmares at Sherlock's age.  
  
But Mycroft was learning--as if it hadn't sunk in earlier--that Sherlock was not his perfect duplicate. They had more differences than just their appearances. He had thought that, with the right tutoring and encouragement, Sherlock would be like Mycroft, but better--a Mycroft 2.0, with friends and a social life. Although the hope for the latter had disappeared the day Sherlock was diagnosed, Mycroft was still optimistic about the former. He wanted better for his brother than what he'd had, but he didn't know how to help him when they were so different.  
  
He looked down at his brother. Sherlock was, for once, quiet and peaceful, and Mycroft was shocked at how large he'd grown in nine years. This couldn't be the same ugly creature he'd held for the first time all those years ago. They couldn't be the same person.  
  
Mycroft wasn't aware how much time had passed, but when he rearranged himself slightly, his shirt was damp and Sherlock was fast asleep. He carefully slid off the bed and turned the lamp off while Redbeard took his place on the bed. He left the glass of water on the nightstand, just in case, and went to get another from the kitchen.  
  
Oddly enough, the dream that had woken him up at two in the morning had been similar to Sherlock's.  
  
His brother had fallen off a building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news: I've got a final tonight and another in the morning tomorrow, and then I've got to pack everything up to move out. Good news: early chapter!
> 
> I plan on writing a lot more after finals. I've got ~~way too many~~ a couple of completely non-related one-shots in the pipeline, so if you're interested they should be posted sometime in the coming months. 
> 
> Also, since I'm already shamelessly plugging myself, sometimes I post updates and sneak peeks on my [Tumblr](http://shirelockhomes.co.vu), and occasionally I take prompts for drabble fics or even full one-shots. (If that doesn't entice you, there is also quite a bit of Martin Freeman there, too.)
> 
> If you're in the midst of finals or are about to take them, good luck!


	11. Year 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written long before Mark Gatiss made any comments about what happened to Redbeard. I considered rewriting it after the remarks were made, but due to plot restrictions, I decided to keep the original. So, enjoy my Redbeard headcanon!

Mycroft hadn't gone in with Father and Redbeard. Sherlock had insisted on going with them, even after Father told him that it really wasn't the best idea, and he couldn't leave his brother sitting in the waiting room alone.  
  
Well, he could, and he would have much preferred going inside the whitewashed room with the dog, but Mummy would have gotten upset once they arrived home.  
  
Sherlock was putting on a brave face. The receptionists probably didn't even realize why they had brought in the four-year-old dog. But Mycroft could tell just sitting there was destroying his brother.  
  
_Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils. Half-lidded eyes--trying to be nonchalant, but failing miserably. Slouching. Crossed arms. Defiant, but as though merely putting on an act._  
  
Sherlock was devastated.  
  
He'd heard the story at least five times from five different sources. Four said that Redbeard had attacked old Mr. Duncan. One said that Redbeard only licked his hand.  
  
Oddly enough, Mycroft believed the one over the four.  
  
It didn't matter what Mycroft thought, though. The fact of the matter was that Mr. Duncan's family had pressed charges. He'd bruised overnight, and as Sherlock and Redbeard weren't popular in the neighborhood, they were of course accused as the culprits. Never mind that elderly people bruised on their own.  
  
Father had offered money as reparation, but the Duncans weren't interested. Mycroft could have told him that it wouldn't work; their entire block wasn't in need of money in the least. In the end, it went to court, but because the Duncans were so kind, they agreed to drop the charges if Redbeard was put down. Father refused and fought them tooth and nail, but lawyer fees would have cost them hundreds of thousands of pounds.  
  
Financial matters weren't something their parents discussed with them, but Mycroft wasn't stupid. Father had taken a pay cut, and they simply couldn't afford a court case both for his reputation and from a financial standpoint. Of course, he'd never say either of those things to his sons, least of all Sherlock.  
  
So Father agreed to put Redbeard down, and that was what had brought them to the veterinarian that Saturday.  
  
Sherlock hadn't spoken to their father all week. He'd got it in his head that Father could have paid them off, or at least hired a cheap lawyer. The idiot didn't realize that their father was doing the best he could and that this was the only thing that would solve the problem and not jeopardize the family. Sherlock had instead decided it was a personal vendetta against him.  
  
He had been quiet for the duration of the car ride and the wait in the reception area. A quiet Sherlock was not a good Sherlock. Mycroft decided to attempt to remedy the situation as best he could. "Have you--"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Sherlock--"  
  
"Shut. Up." His voice cracked on the last word. Sherlock's gaze was trained on his shoes, and Mycroft could just barely notice that his clenched hands were shaking.  
  
"It isn't Father's fault," Mycroft said quickly. "You can't--"  
  
"Don't. Sherlock turned to Mycroft, a fire in his eyes that his brother had never seen before. "Don't tell me what his intentions were. I'm not an idiot."  
  
"You are, if you think this is only about you," Mycroft snapped. Really, was the boy that thick? "He is doing this for the good of the family, not--"  
  
"'The good of the family.'" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, because we so desperately need money. However else will we be able to afford the houses or the gardener or--"  
  
"He has an image he has to uphold. And you know very well that if he could afford it, he'd pay a lawyer to save your stupid dog."  
  
Sherlock scowled. "You always hated him. You wanted him dead."  
  
Mycroft's jaw dropped. Sure, he had never been fond of the creature, but he had no desire for his death. "If you think for one moment--"  
  
The door opened, and their father emerged, a grimace on his face. Sherlock immediately stood and headed for the front door, not even looking at him.  
  
"He hates me, doesn't he?" Father asked Mycroft with a sigh. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his oldest son.  
  
Mycroft pitied the man. Being the object of Sherlock's wrath wasn't a pleasant experience, and his father certainly wasn't deserving of it. "He doesn't understand."  
  
Father sighed again and looked at Mycroft seriously. "Did I make a mistake?"  
  
_Slumped shoulders. Dark circles and bags under the eyes. Rumpled shirt. Day-old stubble._  
  
"No," Mycroft finally replied. He turned and walked back to the car.  
  
Sherlock was waiting outside, wiping his face with his sleeve. When he noticed his brother was behind him, he turned the opposite direction and pretended to ignore Mycroft.  
  
"Don't be a child." He rolled his eyes.  
  
"My dog was just killed," Sherlock said flatly. "I think I'm allowed to be upset."  
  
Mycroft glanced at Sherlock. "I wasn't talking about that."  
  
Their father walked in front of them. His eyes trailed from Mycroft to Sherlock, who wouldn't look at him, either. His gaze drifted down to the pavement in front of his feet. "Well, let's go."  
  
Sherlock made a beeline for the car and climbed inside, slamming the door shut before Mycroft was able to get inside. Mycroft tried not to be too furious as he opened it again and sat down next to Sherlock, glaring at him.  
  
Father said nothing as he drove them back to the house. Neither of the boys did, either. At least out loud.  
  
Mycroft snapped his fingers to get Sherlock's attention and cast him a glance. _You know it's not his fault. Stop acting like a five-year-old._  
  
Sherlock's eyes lingered on Mycroft for only a moment before he turned away and looked out his window. _He was my only friend._  
  
_You'll make other friends._ Mycroft sighed.  
  
_Not like him._ Sherlock shifted in his seat. _I'll never have another friend like him._  
  
That was more than likely true. Redbeard adored Sherlock. The boy would be lucky if he even made friends that liked him.  
  
They didn't communicate until they arrived back home. Their father tried to apologize, but Sherlock pushed past him and stomped to his room. Mycroft smiled sadly at his father and followed after Sherlock.  
  
Mummy reached him first. Sherlock was sprawled out across his bed on his stomach, face buried in a pillow. Mummy was rubbing his back gently, and from the arrhythmic up-and-down of Sherlock's chest, Mycroft could tell he was crying.  
  
She glanced up at Mycroft when he entered. "Myc, sweetie, I don't think he--"  
  
"Get out!" Sherlock yelled.  
  
Mycroft glared at his brother. _Selfish brat._ "Grow up," he growled, turning on his heel and slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.


	12. Year 11

The last box was loaded onto the van. Father gave Mycroft a pat on the shoulder as they watched the back doors close and the drivers climb inside. He steered Mycroft toward the house, and it took all Mycroft had not to roll his eyes.  
  
_Oh, god. Not the speech._  
  
“You’re a smart lad, Mycroft,” he said with a sigh. “You’ll do great.”  
  
“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. Gravel crunched behind them, and the van took off.  
  
“Don’t know what we’re going to do without you. Violet was just saying the other day how she wouldn’t—“  
  
“I was just saying what?”  
  
Mummy’s sunglasses covered most of her face, but her smile was still cheery. She was carrying a large basket filled with things she insisted Mycroft would need, most of which he knew he would have absolutely no use for. He’d told her as much earlier, but she still believed he would have some use for a basket of sweets and cooking utensils.  
  
“Nothing, dear,” Father said quickly. “Let me help you with that.” The basket changed hands, and he took it to the car.  
  
Once he was a few paces away, she turned to Mycroft. “Go talk to your brother, sweetie,” she said softly. “He’s been pouting in his room all week, and you haven’t said a word to him.”  
  
“I don’t intend to,” Mycroft replied curtly. It didn’t really make sense; usually Sherlock’s sulks were instigated by not getting his way (a rare occasion, if their mother had anything to do about it), and as far as Mycroft knew, Sherlock had been getting his way fairly often lately.  
  
“Myc.” She gave him a withering glance. “He’s your brother, and he’s upset that you’re leaving. You need some brotherly time before you go.”  
  
Mycroft scoffed. “Yes, I’m certain he’s just _devastated_ that I’m moving across the country only to visit on holidays.”  
  
“He _is_ ,” she said firmly, “and you can’t go without saying goodbye.”  
  
“But Mother—“  
  
“No ‘buts’, Mikey.” She wagged a finger in his face. “Five minutes, that’s all.”  
  
God, if it wasn’t a good thing he was leaving soon.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes dramatically and headed up the stairs to Sherlock’s room.  
  
Five minutes. He would much rather have dealt with imbeciles his own age than an eleven-year-old in a sulk. Especially an eleven-year-old Sherlock.  
  
He knocked on the door. Something solid—a shoe, judging by the sound it made—was thrown at it in reply. He ignored it and opened the door anyway.  
  
Sherlock was on his bed, spread out on his stomach. His face was turned away from Mycroft, but he held another shoe in his hand and lifted it up in preparation to throw. Mycroft snatched it and gently whacked the back of his head with the heel.  
  
“Manners, Sherlock.”  
  
“What do you want?” His voice was muffled by the pillow and sounded all but…defeated?  
  
“Mummy insisted I talk to you before I leave.”  
  
“Mummy’s an idiot.”  
  
He couldn’t exactly argue with that. Mycroft tossed the shoe in a corner of the room, then sat on the bed, his back to Sherlock. “Any particular reason for this one? Didn’t get your Action Man?”  
  
Sherlock rolled over onto his side. “Shut up.”  
  
“Ah, of course not. You stole all of mine years ago.”  
  
“You never played with them, anyway,” he grumbled.  
  
“Blowing them up was not necessarily playing, either.”  
  
“Don’t you have a cake to eat?” he asked sharply.  
  
Mycroft frowned. “Don’t you have bugs to dissect? Other children to terrorize?”  
  
Sherlock was silent. “No,” he finally replied, his voice much less harsh.  
  
“And you obviously aren’t going to tell me why you’re acting like an idiot, either, are you?”  
  
“‘M not an idiot.”  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
“‘M not.”  
  
Mycroft sighed loudly. “Mummy seems to have got it in her head that you are upset about my leaving. That’s obviously not the case, so if you will simply tell me we can get this over with and I can—“  
  
Small arms wrapped around Mycroft’s neck from behind, and Sherlock’s head rested against his back. Mycroft immediately stiffened. He wasn’t sure how to handle it, so he waited to see if Sherlock would explain himself.  
  
It didn’t happen.  
  
“Sherlock,” he began, hoping he’d be interrupted as usual, but his brother still said nothing. Mycroft twisted a bit, and Sherlock let go, but he didn’t move from his spot.  
  
“I’ll be home for holidays,” Mycroft said. Was that comforting? He wasn’t certain. Sherlock didn’t seem to have a reaction to it. “And you can call me. Although I have no idea why—“  
  
“You’re leaving me.”  
  
Sherlock’s voice was broken and hoarse, and his hands were clenched into fists on his thighs. He wasn’t looking at Mycroft; his eyes were trained on his fists, but Mycroft could tell he was very near crying.  
  
_Tears. Wonderful._  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sherlock—“  
  
“You’re leaving me,” he repeated, “and I still need your help, and you’re going to be gone and it won’t be the same.” He was blubbering, and Mycroft almost would have found it annoying if it weren’t so…strange. “I still can’t—stop. Emotions, and—I want people to like me, to not call me things, and you said I still had a lot to learn about the science of deduction and the world and people, but you can’t teach me when you’re so far away—“  
  
Something niggling inside Mycroft told him that he should hug his brother, but such things were beyond his capabilities. He thought for a moment, then sighed. “Do you remember when Mummy took you to the psychiatrist last month?”  
  
Sherlock looked up at Mycroft quizzically, wiping his nose. “Yes.”  
  
“She didn’t tell you, did she?”  
  
“Tell me what?”  
  
Mycroft stared at him for a moment. Perhaps it would be easier not to tell him. Now was probably the wrong time. He filed the information away for later and switched tracks. “Nothing. Only that it would be the last for a while.”  
  
Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Myc?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“What are a liar’s tells?”  
  
He gave him a smug smile. “You know the answer to that. And I’m not lying to you.”  
  
Sherlock pouted. “It’s still not _fair_! You already know all this stuff, and you can’t even teach it all to me because you’re leaving me all alone.”  
  
“You’re not alone,” Mycroft reminded. “You have Mummy and Father.”  
  
“They’re not my friends,” he said quietly.  
  
_Friends?_ Mycroft didn’t have any friends, and neither did Sherlock, for that matter. They were _brothers_ , not friends. He opened his mouth to say as much before Sherlock started up again.  
  
“You’re so selfish,” he huffed. “Going away when I need you here.”  
  
Mycroft laughed. “Yes, _I_ am the selfish one, not the little boy who wants to keep his brother from university for his own gain.”  
  
Sherlock cracked a bit of a smile, but turned away before Mycroft got much more than a glance. He looked as though he was about to say something before Father’s voice carried through the house.  
  
It was time.  
  
Mycroft stood up and was slightly surprised to see Sherlock following behind. They walked down the stairs and out of the house together. Mycroft received awkward hugs from his parents and a shortened version of ‘the speech’ from his father. Although neither he nor Sherlock attempted a hug, they said what they needed to say with a look.  
  
_Call me if you need anything._  
  
_I won’t need anything. But I will anyway._  
  
And then Mycroft crawled into the car, and the Holmes estate was in the rearview mirror. He stared until it hit the horizon, and he kept staring even after it was out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of update last week. Real life got in the way.
> 
> Also, I wrote this chapter in an hour at one in the morning because I was _not_ going to skip two weeks again, so I apologize for any problems.


	13. Year 12

Mycroft had always assumed that he would hate coming home for holidays and the odd weekend. He enjoyed being away too much, and he never let the irrational feeling of "homesickness" overwhelm him. In fact, he found that he didn't miss home at all while he was away. But he still liked coming home, if not to sleep in a king-sized bed instead of an old cot. That alone was almost worth putting up with the family.  
  
Well, the bed, and Mummy's cakes.  
  
He always tried to arrive when Sherlock was in school. It was easier on everyone; Sherlock wouldn't throw a tantrum, Mycroft could take a short nap, and Mummy and Father didn't have to listen to the bickering until at least dinner, if not later.  
  
So when Mycroft showed up at the Holmes manor at one in the afternoon, he had assumed that Sherlock would still be in school. He knew Mummy had a gardener's club meeting, and Father had work. There shouldn't have been anyone in the house. And yet, when he unlocked the front door, he could clearly hear yelling from upstairs.  
  
There was only one inhabitant of the house that was ever known to yell.  
  
Mycroft sighed heavily and tiptoed up the stairs to his old room. Perhaps, if he was quiet enough, Sherlock wouldn't even notice that he had arrived. He would tell Mummy that Sherlock skipped his classes when she got home, like the good brother he was, and let her deal with the aftermath. She was always better with him, anyway.  
  
As he walked past Sherlock's room, Mycroft could (quite distinctly) hear bits of the conversation.  
  
"...There's something different here! I know it! He didn't just drown!... But then how can you explain—well, _I_ can't help that _you're_ an idiot!"  
  
Whoever Sherlock was speaking to—or, rather, speaking at—they were on the other end of a phone. Sherlock never called anyone; he usually reserved that privilege for their mother. A few quick deductions, and Mycroft knew.  
  
Sherlock was speaking to the police.  
  
Mycroft waited a bit longer, his hand on the doorknob, just in case he needed to intervene. It wouldn't surprise him if Sherlock had gotten himself into trouble—but if he had, why were the police calling him instead of hauling him off to the station?  
  
"...No, no, listen to me. Carl Powers didn't drown; something else killed him. I don't know what, and I don't know how, but if you'd just let me see him, I could—“ A pause, then Sherlock's voice became soft. "Right. Of course."  
  
The phone clicked as it was returned to its base, and Mycroft immediately hustled toward his own room. He didn't want to hear the protestations that would come if Sherlock knew he was eavesdropping.  
  
He had just closed his door when it opened again. Instead of turning around, Mycroft pretended to be putting his things away, keeping his back to the door.  
  
"Mycroft."  
  
The name was quiet and without inflection. Mycroft turned upon hearing it, raising an eyebrow to feign innocence, although they both knew what had just transpired.  
  
But Sherlock wasn't angry. He wasn't happy, either, but he certainly wasn't upset that Mycroft had heard him. If anything, he looked exhausted; he had circles under his eyes, half-moons that made him look like a raccoon. It would have been comical, had he not also been at least ten pounds thinner than the last time Mycroft had seen him. Mycroft was about to be concerned, but before he could open his mouth, Sherlock had already started talking.  
  
"They don't believe me. They think I’m—“ Sherlock waved a hand, flopping onto Mycroft's bed. "Just a kid."  
  
Mycroft paused. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Being away had made him slightly less in-touch with the way Sherlock operated.  
  
"You are just a kid," Mycroft said, only realizing after the words had escaped that that was certainly not the right thing to say.  
  
Still, Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "I'm smarter than them, Mycroft. I _am_. And they're too stupid to see that he didn't drown. The autopsy showed that he didn't die of oxygen deprivation. There has to be something else—“  
  
"Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "If you want my advice, do not get involved."  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”  
  
“They’ll never believe you.” After moving one of Sherlock’s legs (which covered half the bed, they were so long now; how long had Mycroft been gone?), Mycroft sat next to him. He’d seen the reports on Carl Powers on the BBC, had read the paper. “They have decided on what they want it to be, and there is nothing to be done—“  
  
“Make Father tell them!” Sherlock bounded off the bed and began pacing, his hands clasped under his chin. “You can tell Father that they _have_ to listen to me, because I’m smart, and they’ll listen to Father, because he’s… well. He’s Father.” He turned to Mycroft, his eyes shining. “And then I can show them the evidence—the autopsy, the signs of oxygen deprivation and how it affects the brain, and then they’ll have to show me the body—“  
  
Mycroft reached for his brother’s arm and gently pulled him back onto the bed. He hadn’t seen Sherlock so excited about anything in a rather long time, and he wondered whether that was a good or bad thing. “Sherlock. They will not listen to you.”  
  
“They will.” Sherlock yanked his arm back vehemently. “They’ll have to.”  
  
“What does it matter to you, anyway?” Mycroft snapped. “He is just some boy that drowned in a pool. You didn’t know him.”  
  
“That doesn’t matter!”  
  
“Of course not. Because you only wish to show off with this stunt, don’t you?”  
  
They fell silent, and they stared at each other for a few moments. Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled, and as Mycroft stood, Sherlock raced out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Mycroft's words fell empty against the wall.  
  
_I didn’t mean that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. I went on a study abroad trip this summer and didn't feel like writing or updating while I was away. But, now I'm back to my regular routine, so there should be updates every so often. I'm not even going to try to keep myself on a schedule anymore (you all saw how well _that_ worked out), but expect something new every one to two weeks.


	14. Year 13

"Mr. Holmes, Sherlock is a gifted student, and a... bit different," the headmaster said slowly, "but he has been getting into quite a bit of trouble lately in his classes."  
  
Mycroft crossed his legs. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was slouching in his chair and looking much the delinquent that the school made him out to be. Good. Any nervousness on Sherlock's part might give them away, and Mycroft was not one to be embarrassed by a holier-than-thou headmaster who had a drinking problem and was more than likely cheating on his wife with a student.  
  
When Sherlock had called him a week ago, begging him to come back from uni and "fix it" for him, Mycroft was loathe to agree. Sherlock had been misbehaving more and more frequently, and, as Mummy refused to believe that her darling little angel might be anything less than perfect, it would have served him right to be subjected to a bit of discipline.  
  
However, Father would have been the one to attend the meeting Mycroft was currently sucked into, and that wouldn't have boded well for Sherlock. Just another reason Mycroft questioned why he had agreed to go along with Sherlock's stupid plan.

______________________________  
  


" _I need you to pretend to be Father," he begged._  
  
_"And why would I do that?" Mycroft laughed._  
  
_He could practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes over the phone line. "Because I'll help you with your stupid little 'problem' you were whining about before."_  
  
_"Already solved." Mycroft examined his fingernails, holding his hand out. "It was the sister."_  
  
_"Of course it was the sister; who else--" Sherlock stopped himself. "Look, I just need you to do this one thing for me. I won't ever ask for anything else ever again."_  
  
_"I highly doubt that," Mycroft sighed. "Nonetheless, I will have to take a four-hour round-trip train ride, and you know how much I disdain public transport. You are also asking me to lie to your principal in order to keep you out of trouble, something I am not at all inclined to do. You'll have to make it worth my while."_  
  
_The other line was silent for so long that Mycroft was beginning to think that Sherlock had hung up on him. "I'll have Mum send you a cake from that bakery you love so much," he finally offered._  
  
_Mycroft held back a chuckle. "A tempting offer; however, I could order myself one any time I wish. Ah, well, I suppose you will have to take Father to your meeting. My condolences."_  
  
_"No! Wait!" He was desperate, then. Must have done something especially interesting. "I'll just owe you one, all right? I can't tell Father. He'd kill me."_  
  
_Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have laughed at Sherlock's offer. But his little brother was obviously desperate, and knowing that he would have Sherlock in his debt was a welcoming thought. "Fine," he agreed, huffing in an attempt at displeasure. "When is this ridiculous meeting?"_

______________________________

"...Mr. Holmes?" The principal was looking at him with a frown.  
  
"Yes, my apologies." Mycroft flashed him his best smile. "Do go on."  
  
"Right." He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, your son has been involved in"—he glanced down at a sheet of paper, adjusting his glasses—"three fights, two reported verbal assaults on staff members, and an overall sour attitude." Smith set the paper down and looked at Mycroft seriously. "I realize you have a very important position in our country's government, but I cannot allow this to continue. Sherlock will have to be expelled for this behavior."  
  
Ah. So _that_ was why Sherlock wanted Mycroft to take Father's place. He had already been expelled once before, and Father had told him that if it happened again, he would be sent to boarding school. Granted, Mycroft thought that was probably the best option for Sherlock, but he knew his brother would fight it as much as possible. This would be less painful for all those involved.  
  
Mycroft straightened in his chair after taking a quick look at Sherlock, who had turned even more pale than usual. "Mr. Smith." He smiled again, resting his hands on his knee, his voice low and dangerous. He could deduce two different angles in which to proceed, and he opted for the lesser of the two first. "Have you been informed as to how these fights were started?"  
  
Smith nodded. "Yes, of course. They were all started by different students, but—“  
  
"And so Sherlock is the one being punished for being attacked by another group of students on the basis that he is, as you so eloquently put it earlier...'a bit different?'"  
  
Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, and Mycroft put a hand out to still him.  
  
"Um—well, I mean... of course, we've spoken to them, and—"  
  
"And were they threatened with expulsion, as well?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"No, of course not. They haven't been in as many fights as—"  
  
Mycroft motioned toward Sherlock. "Mr. Smith, I would like you to take a look at my son. Does he appear to be the sort who would willingly enter a fight?"  
  
Smith looked from Sherlock back to Mycroft. "I suppose not," he admitted.  
  
"And if he were unwittingly shoved into a physical disagreement, do you think he would ever have an opportunity to get out of it unscathed?”  
  
Sherlock straightened up in his chair. Mycroft cleared his throat to settle him down. "Do you, Mr. Smith?"  
  
"No." He paused. "But that still doesn't excuse his rudeness with my faculty."  
  
He was right. The fights might not have been entirely Sherlock's fault, but his inability to keep his trap shut most certainly was. It was a perfect segue into Mycroft’s second angle.  
  
"You have a lovely new football pitch, Mr. Smith."  
  
Confused, the principal furrowed his brows. "Why, yes, it is rather grand, isn't it?"  
  
Mycroft had done his research before waltzing into the office that day. The Holmes estate had given the school almost the entire amount needed to buy the land and the equipment to build the pitch. Father consistently forked over quite a bit more than Sherlock's tuition alone, and Mycroft knew that money would be sorely missed if Sherlock were to be expelled.  
  
"Did you ever happen to examine the list of generous donors who helped pay for that pitch?”  
  
Smith blanched. "Well—yes, sir, and your donation is very much appreciated, but this isn't—"  
  
"Tell me, would you have been able to afford that new pitch without my funding?" Mycroft looked at Smith expectantly. Sweating, avoiding eye contact, a slight twist in his facial features—it told him all he needed to know without Smith speaking a single word.  
  
"I see," he smiled. "You do realize that, if Sherlock is expelled, you will not receive any further funding from the Holmes family?"  
  
Smith said nothing. He shuffled a few pages and files around on his desk, pulled a random sheet out from one of them, and folded his hands on top of it. "I do believe we can settle this in a different manner."  
  
Mycroft smiled. Of course they could. "Excellent. What is your proposal?"  
  
"A month's worth of detentions," the principal said tentatively, looking from brother to brother.  
  
"That sounds far more reasonable." Mycroft stood, straightening his suit jacket and offered a hand. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement."  
  
"I am, too. You know, you look much younger than the last time I saw you, Mr. Holmes," Smith said with a halfway grin as he took Mycroft's hand. "Almost like you've got a younger twin."  
  
Mycroft smiled. "Believe me, I'm nowhere near the age I appear. Come, Sherlock."  
  
Both brothers kept up their façades until they exited the building, and the moment they were outside, they resumed their usual expressions. Mycroft turned to Sherlock sharply.  
  
"You have to be more careful," he scolded. "You can't keep relying on me to bail you out whenever you need it."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So, what, I was just supposed to let Father ship me off somewhere?"  
  
"No." Mycroft stopped walking. "You are supposed to stop instigating these things. Everyone realizes that you are smarter than any teacher or principal here. You should start acting like it instead of behaving like a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum." Mycroft honestly didn’t understand what Sherlock’s problem was. It wasn’t so difficult to keep one’s thoughts to oneself and use a well thought-out threat when necessary, and Sherlock of all people should have known that. If only Sherlock would just _listen_ to Mycroft and do what he said, Sherlock wouldn’t be in half the disasters he found himself in.  
  
"I'm not acting like a five-year old!" Sherlock complained. "They started the fights! I didn’t—“  
  
"You didn't use your intellect and instead hit them back when a simple intimidating command would have done the job. Honestly, Sherlock, have I taught you nothing?" Mycroft scowled and continued walking quickly as Sherlock struggled to keep up behind him.  
  
"It's not my fault, Mycroft!"  
  
He whirled around and glared at Sherlock. "It's as much your fault as it is theirs," he said condescendingly. "Don't act the victim in this, Sherlock. It's unbecoming."  
  
"Thanks for the lecture, Father," Sherlock spat once Mycroft had turned his back to him and continued walking.  
  
"You should be glad it's me giving you the lecture and not Father," Mycroft replied. "Otherwise you would be long gone by now."  
  
Sherlock fell silent. He followed Mycroft back into the car as they left the school and headed for home. Neither brother spoke again until they were well on their way.  
  
"That... bit about being different," Sherlock started, looking out the window.  
  
He didn't need to finish the sentence. Mycroft knew where he was headed. "Believe it or not, I was in your position when I was your age," he sighed. "Although I'll admit I handled it far better than you have; I was never threatened with expulsion."  
  
The car was silent for another moment. "I would have used the football pitch excuse first," Sherlock scoffed.


	15. Year 14

“All he does is sit under that tree. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”  
  
Mycroft’s mother handed him a cup of tea and sighed as she sat down across the kitchen table form him. She looked tired, he noticed. More so than usual. The bags under her eyes were dark, heavy, and there were a few more lines to her face than he’d remembered seeing the last time he’d visited. He took a small sip of the tea, made just the way he’d always liked it, but it tasted too sweet this time. He put it back in its saucer and offered her a small, somewhat-reassuring smile.  
  
“Sherlock? Outside? Perhaps he’s compensating for the stale air he’s been breathing in from the library all these years.”  
  
His mother smiled, and the lines on her face became more pronounced. “You’ve been breathing that air for a while now, too, Myc,” she reminded him, patting his hand.  
  
The front door opened and slammed shut, and shoes resounded against marble tile. Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding his left hand in his right. He made a face at Mycroft, but otherwise ignored them, heading to the kitchen and rummaging through the cupboards.  
  
“Do you need something, darling?” his mother asked, turning around in her chair to look at him.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said quickly. He shoved a black bottle under his arm and started to leave, but Mycroft grabbed his shoulder.  
  
“Let me see your hand.”  
  
Sherlock scowled and wrenched his arm free. He opened his left hand, holding his wrist with his right. His palm was puffy, red, and swollen, with several pockmarks and black stingers sticking out of it like a pincushion, and his face was contorted into something akin to displeasure. There might have been tears in the corners of his eyes, as well, but Mycroft chose not to dwell on that.  
  
Mycroft glanced at their mother, and she quickly jumped into action, taking the bottle of alcohol from under Sherlock’s arm and digging in one of the drawers for tweezers, all the while mumbling things like “My poor baby!” and “We need to get rid of those bees!” and “I can’t believe your father hasn’t done something about that tree!” and "You can't use alcohol on that, dear!"  
  
“What were you thinking?” Mycroft asked sharply.  
  
Sherlock made a face. “They don’t hurt you unless you move really quickly. I accidentally moved my hand, and—“  
  
“It wasn’t his fault, dear,” their mother said as she sat back down in her chair, various utensils lined up on the table. “Now, come here, let Mummy see.”  
  
Sherlock did as he was told. Stingers were tweezed out, bandages were applied, and bumps were iced to numb the pain. Sherlock’s face by the end of it told Mycroft he’d be in a sulk all day, and the thought nearly made him roll his eyes. Here he was, his first day home for the summer, and his brother was already being a brat.  
  
Sherlock made to go back outside, but his mother stopped him. “Oh, no. You’re not going to go get that other hand stung to bits. You’re staying inside for the rest of the day.”  
  
This, of course, caused more pouting and protests, but their mother could not be swayed. It was something admirable in her, Mycroft thought. More politicians should be that persistent.  
  
Ultimately, Sherlock returned to his room, and Mycroft and his mother were left alone in the kitchen again.  
  
“Your father’s working on getting you that job,” she said quietly. “He thinks it’ll be all settled by the time you graduate.”  
  
“Tell him not to bother.” Mycroft adjusted his shirt. “I’d rather apply to my job and receive the position through merit, not through connections.”  
  
His mother raised an eyebrow. “Then, please, tell me how you plan to do so. Your father got his foot in the door because of his uncle, doing the same thing you’ll be doing. And now look at him.”  
  
“He’s only been promoted five times,” Mycroft scoffed, “and he’s still only doing foreign policy. It’s hardly a step up.”  
  
She looked at him harshly, no doubt forming an argument in favor of his father, but she turned her head away and sighed. “Do you think something’s wrong with him?”  
  
“Yes.” Mycroft took another sip of his tea, and it was still far too sweet. He wondered if his tastes had changed. “But there’s always been something wrong with him.”  
  
“I don’t know what to do anymore.” She slapped her hands on her lap in exasperation. “He’s too smart to be getting stung by bees in the garden. He’s fourteen, for goodness’ sakes!”  
  
“He hasn’t matured,” Mycroft suggested. “He hasn’t even hit puberty yet. I doubt there’s much to worry about until he’s an adult. If he’s still getting stung by bees at eighteen, then it might be cause for worry.”  
  
“But Sherlock’s so smart. I don’t know why he wouldn’t mature faster. You were nearly an adult before you turned ten.” She chuckled.  
  
“I’m also smarter than him,” Mycroft said.  
  
His mother smiled and shook her head. “I just worry about him.” Something drew her attention to the window, and she propped her chin up on her hand as she looked outside.  
  
Mycroft finished off his tea with one big gulp and a bit of a grimace. “Don’t we all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that there haven't been updates in the last four or so months; I've been focusing on my other work during that time. I certainly didn't plan on being this far behind, but I'm putting my nose to the grindstone this semester, and I'm hoping to have things wrapped up by the end of the summer. I have every intention of getting this thing done, and (hopefully) in a decent time frame. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me through all this. :)
> 
> Sorry this one's so short! I have the next few chapters nearly finished, and I'm hoping they'll provide some comic relief before we get to the really not-fun bits.


	16. Year 15

Breakfast had been served: bacon, eggs, toast, pudding, a full English. Mycroft’s plate was close to overflowing, and everything was cooked to perfection. He’d missed Mummy’s cooking, if nothing else, and the first breakfast of summer was always a glorious occasion.  
  
But that wasn’t all, oh no; Mycroft’s cup overfloweth. Tea, freshly-squeezed orange juice, water, coffee. He had a sip from each, and his tea was downed in five minutes.  
  
“Don’t they feed you up there?” Mummy asked, patting his shoulder. “You always come home so hungry; it’s a wonder you haven’t lost any weight.”  
  
Sherlock snickered from across the table, but that was fine. Mycroft had plenty of food—good food, at that—and his diet could officially begin tomorrow.  
  
While Mycroft’s plate was covered with solid foods, Sherlock wasn’t so lucky. He had a bowl of scentless, flavorless porridge. The oats had been ground down to a fine powder and turned into a disgusting-looking beige liquid with water—Mummy hadn’t even used milk; it would have made the result too thick.  
  
“How does the porridge taste, dear?” she asked, leaning down next to Sherlock. He made a face, keeping his lips sealed in a tight line. His cheeks still looked a little puffy, and every once in a while he scowled and pressed a hand to one of the swollen lumps.  
  
“You haven’t even eaten any, have you?” Mummy said. She scooped up a spoonful and held it to his mouth. “Do I need to feed it to you?”  
  
Oh, this was too much. Mycroft beamed.  
  
Sherlock pushed her arm away with a look of absolute disdain, but she shook her head. “No, no.” She dabbed the spoon onto his nose, leaving a dollop of goo behind. “You’re going to eat this whole bowl, Sherlock Holmes, and you’re going to like it, whether I have to feed you or no.”  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment, but Sherlock reluctantly took the spoon from his mother and scooped up a bite, using a napkin to wipe off the porridge from his nose. Mycroft saw a glint of silver in his mouth as he opened up, and the look of disgust on Sherlock's face as he swallowed was worth any teasing Mycroft was sure to receive from his brother all week.  
  
“There, not so bad, is it?” Mummy ruffled his curls, making them even more unkempt. “How does your mouth feel?”  
  
“Hurth,” Sherlock replied quietly, his lisp just barely audible.  
  
Previously, Mycroft had thought that his tenth birthday was the best day of his life. He wasn’t so sure about that anymore.  
  
“What was that?” he asked, cupping a hand to his ear. “Did you say it hurts?”  
  
Sherlock’s glare could have curdled milk.  
  
“Don’t rile him, Myc,” Mummy scolded, though her tone was less than harsh and she was biting back a smile. “Poor baby’s had a rough twenty-four hours.”  
  
Sherlock sucked in a breath, but he didn’t reply. Mycroft could see his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek; the braces must have caught on some of the tissue. He pushed his glass of water toward Sherlock, who had refused a drink earlier. They stared at each other for a moment, but Sherlock grabbed the water quickly and took a swig, letting it cool down his mouth.  
  
“You should suck on ice,” Mycroft said.  
  
Sherlock scowled. _And you say I’m the rude one._  
  
_You are, but that’s not what I meant. It’s a suggestion, one you’d do well to take literally_. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
  
Mummy shuffled back over to the table, a small plate of eggs and toast in hand. She sat down with a contented sigh. “So, what are my boys doing today? Any plans?”  
  
“I have work at nine,” Mycroft said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Well, perhaps _work_ was a loose term, but apprenticing was a lot of effort, even if he wasn’t actually going to be paid for it.  
  
“Oh, that’s right! Today’s your first day. Oh, dear, look at my Myc, all grown up.” She smiled widely, and Sherlock stood up from the table, his chair screeching against the floor.  
  
“What do you need, darling?” Mummy asked, turning to Sherlock.  
  
Of course Mycroft couldn’t have any bit of attention for longer than five minutes.  
  
Sherlock walked into the kitchen. Even from the back, his cheeks were puffed out noticeably. He opened the freezer with a rough tug and grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the tray, stuffing them in his mouth and looking like a squirrel with too many nuts. He whirled back around, and it was clear by the look on his face that he’d made a mistake, but god forbid he let anyone know it. Mycroft bit his lip and raised his eyebrows as Sherlock returned to the table, his face set.  
  
Mummy glanced at Mycroft, the corners of her mouth quirking into a sort-of smile as she turned back to Sherlock. “Feel better?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. _Don’t you dare say anything._  
  
_Wasn’t planning on it_. Mycroft sipped at his coffee.  
  
“Well, Sherlock, I was thinking about taking you into town to get your hair cut.” Mummy spread jam on her toast before taking a bite. “We have to do something about that frizz.”  
  
Sherlock made another face, and he opened his mouth a fraction to reply, but immediately closed it again, as if opening any wider would cause the ice cubes to fall out into his porridge.  
  
“And we can see about doing something with those spots. Matilda, the girl at the shop, she’ll know exactly what to use to clear those right up. She was talking to someone the last time I was in about spots, and the girl had some like yours, so I’ll have to see if that will work for you…”  
  
As Mummy went on, Sherlock sank lower and lower into his chair, and he crossed his arms. Mycroft just watched him with an amused smile. The day was already better than he could ever have imagined.  
  
Oh, the fun he’d have this summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed I've changed to a different pseud. I figured it'd be easier for people to find me if I'm using the same handle I use for every other website. So, if you'd like to find me on Tumblr/Twitter/LJ, you can look me up under shirelockhomes! :)
> 
> In other news, I'm happy to be able to say that there will be a new chapter posted every week. I can't give you a specific day, but since it's summer, I'm working on amping up my writing output, and so far I'm ahead of schedule. (Yay!) I'm also working on a few other projects, so look out for those, too!


	17. Year 16

The entire house smelled of stew, of beef and carrots and potatoes and broth. Mycroft couldn’t say he wasn’t glad that there would be a nice meal soon, and he set his briefcase and umbrella down near the entryway with a contented sigh, shedding his coat. A quick glance down the hall told him that his father was still in the library—the door was closed—but there was a soft humming coming from the kitchen, accompanied with staticky pop music from before Mycroft was born.  
  
“Mycie!” his mother said, turning around from the stove to look at him when he’d cleared his throat. “You’re home early. I was going to have dinner ready before you came back.”  
  
“I finished my tasks quickly,” Mycroft told her, cautiously walking toward the large pot that was close to boiling, hands behind his back as not to pose an immediate threat to whatever she was cooking.  
  
“Ah ah, not yet,” she said, waving a wooden spoon in the air before dunking it back into the pot and stirring a bit more. “Go get your brother. He needs to come set the table.”  
  
“I thought you paid people for that.”  
  
“We do. But I need all the help I can get, and your brother’s started pulling his weight around here.” She tasted a pit from her spoon, some of the broth and stray pieces of vegetable and potato, made a face, and put the spoon back into the pot. “And don’t you worry; you’ll have a few chores yourself once you get back down here.”  
  
Mycroft nearly laughed—Sherlock, doing _chores_?—but nodded and headed upstairs to Sherlock’s room. He felt oddly cheerful; maybe it was the fact that he knew he likely wouldn’t be spending another university holiday with his family after this year, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, things had seemed to be going all right. He’d secured his job at the Foreign Office, and even if it was running memos and being a glorified apprentice, he had nowhere to go but up, and he’d done it on his own merit, without his father’s help.  
  
The lock on Sherlock’s door was gone, the old brass-plated knob replaced with a new dark green handle without a lock. That didn’t surprise Mycroft, frankly; the chemical accident last year had apparently been enough to warrant that Sherlock really didn’t need to be able to lock himself away.  
  
Mycroft knocked, two soft, quick taps, then opened the door. “Sherlock, Mummy wants you to—“  
  
The moment Mycroft stepped inside, he witnessed what was perhaps the most traumatizing thing he’d ever seen in his entire life.  
  
The lights were off, and the blinds were open only just enough for a small sliver of light to come into the room, casting a stripe on Sherlock’s bed. The only other light from the room was a small torch that was flicked off one second after Mycroft had opened the door. A faint squelching sound and muffled breath was the only sound, and that also stopped as soon as the door had opened.  
  
Sherlock, who was in bed partially under the covers—an odd thing in and of itself—fumbled with them after the torch was turned off, pulling his duvet up to his chin and casting a furious glare at Mycroft as he turned the lower half of his body away from the door.  
  
What was more interesting, however, was the shine of a glossy magazine page that disappeared when Sherlock pulled the covers up higher.  
  
They stared at each other for a while. Mycroft had an idea of what Sherlock was doing, and if he was right in his assumption, he’d need to visit the toilet for a nice vomit. But this was _Sherlock_ , not a regular sixteen-year-old boy. Mycroft and Sherlock were _different_ , they were _above_ this sort of thing.  
  
And yet the glare and absolute disdain that was radiating off Sherlock told Mycroft that, no, _Sherlock_ wasn’t.  
  
“Don’t you know how to knock?” Sherlock growled. Or it would have been a growl, if his voice didn’t crack.  
  
_Don’t you know how_ disgusting _that is?_ Mycroft wanted to say, but he knew he didn’t have to. “Mummy wants you downstairs to set the table.”  
  
“Tell her I’m not doing my chores.”  
  
“She has a wooden spoon and I doubt she’d be reluctant to hit you up the head with it.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He didn’t move from the bed or push down the duvet.  
  
“Are you going to go or not?”  
  
Sherlock gave him a look. _Do you actually want me to get out of bed like this with you standing there?_  
  
_Ah. Definitely not_. Mycroft nodded once, then went to close the door before poking his head back in. “Wash your hands.” He went to leave again, then opened the door wider just before he closed it. “Thrice, please.”  
  
Mycroft shivered after he closed the door. He would not be able to delete _that_ for a long while. _God_.  
  
Sherlock arrived downstairs five minutes later, smelling of soap, for which Mycroft was infinitely thankful. Mummy didn’t seem to suspect anything; she had Sherlock set the table for four while Mycroft poured the alcohol for the adults and a glass of water for Sherlock. Mycroft fetched his father from the library when it was time to eat, and they sat at their respective places at the table.  
  
Dinner was silent for a while. Mycroft could tell Father was thinking about work; his eyes were glazed over, and his shoulders were hunched as though he were exhausted. Mummy was glancing out the window, no doubt thinking about how to keep insects and vermin out of her new vegetable garden. And Sherlock—well, Sherlock hadn’t looked up from his plate since they sat down.  
  
It didn’t take too long for Mummy to start a conversation, though. She turned to Sherlock with a smile. “How did you like your new magazine, darling? I didn’t know you’d subscribed to that one.”  
  
Sherlock turned bright red, looking up only just briefly. “I liked it.”  
  
“What sort of magazine is it?” Father asked.  
  
“It’s a military magazine,” Mummy said. “I think Sherly wants to be in the army.”  
  
_Oh. Of course_. Mycroft let out one loud laugh. _Yes, that was_ precisely _what Sherlock wanted to do. Join the army so he can be surrounded by good-looking men._  
  
The family turned to look at him, confused save for Sherlock, who was furious.  
  
“I think it’d be good for him,” Mycroft said finally. The topic shifted to politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you go! Obligatory reference to Sherlock's, ahem, _informational_ magazines.
> 
> Although I ship Mycroft with basically every character in the show for funsies, my _real_ headcanon is that Mycroft is aromantic asexual and somewhat sex-repulsed. (At least sex-repulsed when it comes to thinking about his brother doing those sorts of things, but then who wouldn't be?)
> 
> A bit of self-promotion: [I'm running a giveaway on my Tumblr for my followers.](http://shirelockhomes.tumblr.com/post/119135779388/so-i-promised-a-giveaway-a-long-time-ago-for) There's some pretty neat stuff, so if you're interested check it out.
> 
> Last thing: Wednesdays are going to be the usual days for posting now. I don't have anything on most Wednesdays, and it gives me time to look things over one last time before posting. :)


	18. Year 17

Mycroft dressed in his usual work best—suit, waistcoat, tie, oxfords. A tie pin was technically optional, though highly suggested, but he decided to be a bit rebellious that day and go without. The pocket watch was his final touch—again, not required, but he thought it made him look older, more refined. He’d bought it new when he first got his promotion—and a rather significant bonus along with it.  
  
That was also when he’d moved out of the Holmes manor.  
  
His new flat is well-decorated, but not by himself. He had leased it with all the decor and furniture, the stamp of someone else’s habitation. Dark red wood and forest green decorated most of it, with paint-splattered canvases and cubist art seemingly out of place amidst the rest of the color scheme. Mycroft was fine with this; he didn’t expect to spend too much time away from his new office, and if it was an affront on the senses, well, the flat was only temporary until the next promotion.  
  
Breakfast was simple—a banana and nonfat yogurt. He forced the yogurt down as he had every morning for the last month, then washed it all down with a glass of water. No tea, no coffee, no juice; he’d learned to save his daily allotment of calories for any unexpected tea guests.  
  
Mycroft threw the banana peel and the plastic yogurt cup in the bin, washing off his spoon and setting it and his glass in the sink. The dishes clanked against the porcelain of the sink, and it echoed through the kitchen more loudly than he could remember it ever did at home in the mornings. He washed his hands quickly, using the dish soap that dried out his usually-clammy hands and left them red and itchy.  
  
He grabbed his briefcase and umbrella from the coat rack as he headed for the door. A wisp of smoke appeared out of the window to the left of the door, and Mycroft paused. The smoke dissipated, and another cloud took its place.  
  
Mycroft opened the door as quietly as he could, leaving it ajar behind him. Sherlock’s back was to him, sitting on the steps in front of the building with a cigarette between his index and middle fingers, looking for all the world as if it was meant to be in his hand. He was still wearing his school uniform, though he’d taken off the jumper, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He scratched the back of his head with his opposite hand, then sighed, resting his forearms on his knees.  
  
“If you want to come inside, you’ll have to put that out,” Mycroft said, closing the door behind him.  
  
Sherlock jumped, whipping his head around to look at him while trying to hide the evidence. Mycroft wondered for a moment where he would have even got a cigarette. Certainly not from their father—he smoked a pipe—and Mycroft was certain that Sherlock didn’t have a friend that would be willing to buy a pack for him.  
  
“Didn’t know you lived here,” Sherlock grumbled.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. _Liar_. “You must be rather lucky, then.”  
  
“Wouldn’t call seeing you _lucky_.”  
  
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Mycroft motioned for him to move over, and he sat down on the steps next to Sherlock, setting his briefcase and umbrella down carefully beside him as he checked his pocket watch. He had the time to spare. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”  
  
Sherlock made a face, but said nothing.  
  
_Apparently so_. “Does Mummy know you smoke?”  
  
“Does Mummy know _you_ smoke?”  
  
“That was one occasion, and I did it outside.”  
  
“Yes, well, this is one occasion and I’m outside. What’s the difference?”  
  
He did have a point, Mycroft had to admit. They sat quietly, Sherlock taking a drag every once in a while, but being careful to exhale in the opposite direction from Mycroft’s face. Mycroft suddenly had a craving for nicotine; just one pull on a cigarette would be enough, but he couldn’t ask his little brother for a smoke, much less show up to work smelling like it.  
  
“They want me to think about university,” Sherlock says finally.  
  
“Who does?”  
  
“Everyone.” Sherlock suddenly sounded exhausted, though not the way his usual melodramatics were. “Father wants me to go to Cambridge, everyone at school wants me to go to Oxford, and Mummy doesn’t care where I go as long as I get a degree.”  
  
“You know what I’m going to tell you.”  
  
Sherlock turned and looked at him, his face entirely blank. He looked paler than usual. “No. I don’t.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. He knew what Sherlock wanted to hear. He also knew what his parents would want him to tell Sherlock, and what he himself would have wanted to hear at Sherlock’s age. “University isn’t a requirement. But it would be a waste for your brain to rot doing some menial job when you could otherwise make a decent living for yourself and perhaps learn something.” _And it would be good for you to make friends._  
  
“You probably want me to go to Oxbridge, though,” he said, almost spitting.  
  
“Not necessarily.” Mycroft shrugged. “Of course, I can’t tell you not to go. They’ll accept you at either one, and you would do well at them both. But it’s ultimately your decision.” _So don’t mess it up._  
  
“I want to be a private detective,” Sherlock said. “Do I have to go to uni for that?”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “I don’t need to. I can figure out everything about someone just by looking at them. I don’t need to learn anything else.”  
  
“Would you trust a detective who hasn’t had a university education?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Sherlock snorted. Mycroft smiled, grabbing the handle of his briefcase with one hand as he put the crook of his umbrella over his wrist.  
  
“Choose a science. You like science to begin with, and it would help with your investigations.”  
  
“Do you think Father would let me do chemistry?” Sherlock asked, looking up at him.  
  
“Father isn’t half as evil as you make him out to be,” Mycroft said harshly before making his tone more gentle. “Frankly, I think he would be happy that you aren’t pursuing the liberal arts.”  
  
Sherlock smiled at that. He tossed the cigarette to the pavement and stamped it out.  
  
“If you have more of those, you’ll have to get rid of them before you go inside,” Mycroft warned.  
  
“I don’t want to go inside.” Sherlock stood up, brushing off his shorts and heaving his rucksack up onto his shoulder. “I’ll miss my last class if I do.”  
  
Mycroft smiled and watched him go before heading in the opposite direction.


	19. Year 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Smithslock tag is a bit of a misnomer, as The Smiths aren't specifically mentioned, but, well, you'll see.
> 
> This one's also a bit shorter; personal things got in the way this week. But I still made it in on Wednesday morning, so it still counts, right? I'll make up for it next time.

The halls in the dormitory were small, but the few windows in between the rooms on either side allowed enough light in that it wasn’t as eerie as it could have been. The carpeting had to have been from half a century ago, and the lighting was a faded yellow, annoyingly obvious even during the day.  
  
Mycroft had not had the privilege of seeing Sherlock off, as he’d been at work that day, but he’d heard from Mummy on multiple occasions about Sherlock’s general well-being, and that had seemed enough. But of course the brat had to exceed expectations, and so Mycroft had thought it prudent to pay Sherlock an actual visit.  
  
The foul smells from the hallway almost made him reconsider. Had his own college smelled so disgusting, or had he been so used to it that he hadn’t noticed?  
  
As he walked toward Sherlock’s room, the faint noise of rock music got louder and louder. By the time he reached Sherlock’s door, the volume was ear-splitting, and he knocked harder than he’d meant to with the tip of his umbrella as a result.   
  
Sherlock answered the door, his hair disheveled, the music even more obnoxious. “What?” he spat as Mycroft strode past him into the room.   
  
The fist thing he did was move the needle away from the record. “If you wanted a proper record player, you could have asked,” he said wearily. “At this rate, all you’ll succeed in doing is blowing out the speakers and making everyone deaf.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ a proper record player,” Sherlock sneered.  
  
Mycroft frowned. Sherlock was wearing an outfit he hadn’t seen on him before, an entirely-black ensemble of t-shirt—the phrase Sisters of Mercy did not bode well, but certainly Sherlock hadn’t chosen a religion?—trousers, and boots. And, on second thought, the room did look considerably darker on Sherlock’s side than on his roommate’s…  
  
It also smelled of cigarette smoke and alcohol, and while Mycroft probably should have addressed that, he was there for other reasons.  
  
“Mummy says your professors called. You haven’t attended any classes in the last week. They’re marking you as not being enrolled in those classes now.” Mycroft slipped the record back into its sleeve, frowning at the title of the album.   
  
“I don’t care.” Sherlock flopped on his back onto his bed. “University is stupid.”  
  
Mycroft gave him a long-suffering sigh. He was already wishing he hadn’t come in the first place. “Maybe if you actually attended class you would have data to back up your ridiculous argument. As it stands, however, you just look like an idiot in mourning clothes.”  
  
Sherlock turned his head and glared at Mycroft, then stared at the ceiling. “You don’t _understand_.”  
  
“I understand perfectly well,” Mycroft snapped. “You think that now you’re away from home, you can act like a fool and be rebellious.”  
  
“None of you understand,” Sherlock sighed, mumbling at the ceiling. “Not you, or Father, or Mummy—“  
  
“You’re the rich son of a foreign politician,” Mycroft barked. “You have nothing to whine about or be misunderstood.”  
  
“I didn’t ask for this!”  
  
“And I didn’t ask for a brother, especially not one who can’t control himself!”  
  
Even though Mycroft only saw Sherlock’s profile, he could see his face crumble, his eyes close, his chest rise slowly and fall even slower. Mycroft could feel the rift of silence growing wider until he couldn’t take it any longer. He cleared his throat.  
  
“Obviously, I didn’t mean it quite the way it came out.”  
  
Sherlock snorted, but he sat up on the bed, facing Mycroft, and all was apparently forgiven. Mycroft bit back the small smile that teased at his lips.   
  
“I went to my first lecture,” Sherlock explained, “but the professor was an idiot, and the book explained everything I needed to know.”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that most lectures have an attendance policy? Even if you do well on assignments and exams, you’ll still fail if you don’t attend.”  
  
“I’m aware.” Sherlock pushed himself off the bed, walking to the record player and putting the same record back on, albeit at a much more pleasant volume. “I haven’t used all of my absences yet, though.”  
  
“Why in the world would you waste all your absences at the beginning of the term?” Mycroft asked, genuinely bewildered. “Use that time to learn what the professors expect and then carefully plan when you’ll be absent.”  
  
“Why would I do _that_?”   
  
“Yes, of course, why be _logical_ about this?” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “But do go to class on occasion. Father and Mummy won’t be too happy if you end up wasting an entire term—and their money—because you failed the courses..”  
  
Sherlock huffed, but he didn’t argue; of course he knew Mycroft was right. When it was clear the conversation was finished—Sherlock was rummaging through his records—Mycroft headed for the door.  
  
“Oh, and do something about that smell,” Mycroft said with a grimace. “I doubt neither smoking nor drinking are allowed in your dormitories.”  
  
Sherlock grunted, but didn’t turn around.  
  
As soon as Mycroft closed the door, the music was turned up to the same volume as before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another talky chapter, I'm sorry. But we get to the _really_ heavy stuff next time, so please be sure to check the tags before you start reading!
> 
> I have a soft spot for 80s alternative music, so I of course had to have teen Sherlock listening to some good stuff. :) And, if you're wondering, he was playing The Smith's _Meat is Murder_ (though that could just be me justifying the use of the tag). I'll let you decide which song Mycroft walked in on. ;)


	20. Year 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a few days late; some personal things came up. We'll be back on schedule next week!
> 
> Having said that, I think I'm going to boost my output to twice a week after this coming week, which means there will be an update on June 17, and then we'll be doing Sundays AND Wednesdays. I want to get this done this summer, and that seems the best way to do it.

“Is this Sherlock’s brother?”  
  
The voice was hurried, male, and high in pitch, almost as though the speaker hadn’t quite reached puberty yet. There was no background noise.   
  
“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He hadn’t even realized that Sherlock would have his work number, but he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising. He motioned to his PA—perk of the promotion—to give him a moment. “Who is this?”  
  
“My name’s Victor. I’m his… friend.”  
  
 _I’m his friend._ The words hit Mycroft harder than he’d expected. _Sherlock had made a friend._   
  
His next thought was not such a happy one. “What happened?”  
  
Victor’s tone became more harried; Mycroft could practically hear his heart rate pick up. “I—well, I was walking my dog, and—and I ran into Sherlock—that’s how we met, really—and my dog sort of… bit up his ankle. A tad. It’s… well, it’s pretty bloody.“  
  
Wonderful. Sherlock had made friends with an idiot. “Can he walk on it?”   
  
“No. No, he can’t, so I’m going to help him to the A&E, but I—I didn’t know who to call. I thought someone needed to know, and—and I wasn’t sure—“  
  
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. This was going to take every ounce of patience he had. “Stop.”  
  
“Yes, right, sorry.”  
  
“I’ll get the next train. Do you have class? Can you stay with him?” The PA scuttled out of the office, gathering Mycroft’s briefcase, his suit jacket, his umbrella.   
  
“No, I can stay.”  
  
“Good. I’ll be there in an hour. Find out what hospital they’re taking him to, call this number, and my assistant will notify me. I’ll meet you there.”  
  
He hung up, missing whatever Victor was about to say.

_______________  
  


Victor had done as he’d asked, and Mycroft’s PA had paged him the name of the hospital. He was there within forty-five minutes of leaving his office.  
  
He asked for Holmes at the A&E desk, and they informed him that Sherlock had been moved to a room; apparently the bite had been a bit worse than Mycroft had thought. He found the correct room number and walked inside without any sort of warning.  
  
Sherlock was indeed lying on a hospital bed, though he looked completely indignant; his arms were crossed, and it looked like his IVs had been pulled out at least once. His hair was a stark contrast against the whiteness of the bed and the sterility of the room.   
  
A ginger boy of about the same age sat in the chair next to the bed, looking absolutely terrified—whether of Sherlock or the hospital itself, Mycroft wasn’t certain. He was around Sherlock’s height, probably, but slightly bulkier; not fat, but muscle.   
  
“You must be Victor,” Mycroft said, offering a hand.   
  
“Yes.” Victor shook it, not rising from his chair. “And you’re—“  
  
“My idiot brother, yes,” Sherlock interjected. “Happy now, Mycroft? I’m alive. You can leave now.”  
  
“I will do no such thing,” Mycroft said. “You got yourself admitted to hospital, and I’m not leaving without an explanation.”  
  
Victor opened his mouth as though he was the one to provide that explanation, but Sherlock talked over him. “I was walking down the street when Victor’s dog attacked me. There you are. Leave now.”  
  
Mycroft’s eyes moved over from Sherlock to Victor. “Might I have a word?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Sherlock snarled, “you may not.”  
  
“I don’t believe I was asking you.” _Shut up, idiot_. Mycroft turned away from him. “Victor?”  
  
He stood without looking at Sherlock. A good sign, Mycroft decided. He motioned for them to step out of the room, Sherlock hurtling insults at Mycroft but not, oddly, Victor.  
  
“Is that really what happened?” Mycroft sighed once he was certain they were out of Sherlock’s earshot. He sat down on one of the benches in the hallway. Victor sat next to him, seeming strangely stiff.  
  
“Yes.” Victor nodded, looking at Mycroft strangely. “Is that… so hard to believe?”  
  
“Yes, actually, it is. Sherlock is good with dogs; for whatever reason, they seem to like him.” Granted, Mycroft had limited experience in that area, but Redbeard seemed to like Sherlock well enough. “Why do you think your dog bit him?”  
  
Victor was quiet for a moment. “I honestly don’t know. Daisy’s nice to everyone. I was just taking her for a walk, since the park isn’t too far from my flat, and Sherlock was coming the opposite way, so I tried to pull Daisy to the side on her lead before he passed by, but she just… jumped. It was like he was hiding dog treats in his shoe or something. He said it’d be okay, but he couldn’t walk on it without stumbling, and I felt terrible. You should’ve seen how it was gushing. I’m not good with blood, and—“  
  
“That’s quite enough, thank you,” Mycroft said curtly.  
  
“Right. Okay.”  
  
He sighed. “If it’s any reassurance, I’m certain Sherlock would have got himself hurt at some point. He’s probably glad it was a dog; he’s fond of them.”  
  
“Oh, I could tell.” Victor smiled a bit. “He kept saying how it wasn’t Daisy’s fault, and he played with her a bit while we waited in the A&E. He must be a real pet person.”  
  
 _He obviously is, if he’s picking strays like you up off the street._ “And did _you_ call him your friend, or did _he_ call you his friend?”  
  
Victor frowned. “That’s what he told the nurses when they asked who I was. He said I was his friend.”  
  
That was promising, at least. “I’d like to ask a favor of you, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“What’s that?”   
  
Mycroft rested his hands on top of the crook of his umbrella. “I’d like you to give me regular updates on him. Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable telling me. I’ll even pay you for it. But he can’t know that you’re doing it.”  
  
The silence stretched for so long that Mycroft wondered if Victor had heard him. But then, finally, he spoke. “All right. Yeah.”  
  
“Excellent.” Mycroft stood, biting back a smile. He now had inside intelligence. This would be good. _At least your small mind can do something worthwhile._ “Go take a break. Get a cup of tea. I’ll stay with him for a while.”  
  
Victor nodded again, still sitting on the bench. Mycroft walked back to Sherlock’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, I lied. No dark stuff this time, just dorks and dogs. But we'll definitely get into some sadder territory next week.


	21. Year 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to remind everyone to reread the tags. Some of the earlier warnings are going to be in effect for this chapter.
> 
> This is also our first major divergence from canon. I started writing this story before Series 3 aired, and ever since I first worked on my timeline, this was always the chapter that would have been in this spot. It's integral to the rest of the story, especially the next chapters, and that's why I've chosen to keep it. So just a heads-up!
> 
> We're getting into the sadder bits today, and we're going to stay there for several chapters. And by several, I mean six or seven. I'll be adding tags with general warnings, but I don't want to spoil things for anyone, so they'll be broad. If you find you're uncomfortable with something, no worries! You can join back up with us later; I'll let you know when we're out of the woods. :)

The flowers at the front of the altar were purple. Violets and peonies and lilacs and lavender and boughs of wisteria. Mycroft thought it looked nice, for a last-minute job. She would have liked it; purple was her favorite color. Next to the wreath of flowers was her portrait, one taken maybe five years ago. The frame is gold foil, and the picture itself looks as though it were painted from a distance.   
  
Mycroft sat on the front pew, closer to the aisle, his eyes trained on the wreath and the portrait. His father was to his right, in the seat next to the aisle. Sherlock was to his left, with Victor beside him. Their father had tried to argue that Victor wasn’t family, but Sherlock had given him a glare, and Victor had looked incredibly embarrassed by the entire thing. He had apparently decided that Victor was harmless after that, and had let Sherlock lead him to the front aisle along with the rest of them.  
  
The extended family was in the row behind them, with the invited guests—dignitaries, friends, people their father would have wanted there. Mycroft had of course sent the invitations, so it had been a bit of a guessing game, but their father didn’t look entirely displeased.  
  
He looked exhausted, actually. Everything happened too quickly for him to leave negotiations in the Middle East, and by the time he arrived home, preparations had to be made for the funeral. He had locked himself away in his office, telling Mycroft to handle the arrangements.   
  
So he did: the flowers, the church, the portrait, the speaker, even the casket—which was closed; he knew she wouldn’t have wanted people to see her in that state. Or for other people to make her up. She hated people touching her face.  
  
 _Politics will tear out your soul_ , his father had told him once when he was young, but after he’d said it, he laughed along with his politician friends, throwing his head back, his eyes sparkling, and Mycroft had known he was joking. Now, however, his father looked lifeless, soulless, the lines and dark circles under his eyes more prominent under the faint yellow light. His eyes were dull. Mycroft wondered if they’d ever sparkle again.  
  
The speaker was a priest. Mycroft had been very specific and told him not to bring religion or God into the service; it was to be about her, not anything else. He did as well as could be expected. His voice was interesting, not the monotone Mycroft had always imagined went with funeral services. He liked that.   
  
Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw movement. Sherlock’s bottom lip was twitching, and Victor’s hand took Sherlock’s own and squeezed gently. The concern on Victor’s face almost looked genuine. Apparently he’d been taking acting lessons; he would be believable to most people, perhaps even Sherlock. It was a wonder he hadn’t found out about his and Victor’s agreement yet.  
  
After a while, the priest called Mycroft up to deliver the eulogy. Mycroft had not been the best choice; if he’d had his way, his father would have done it, or at least Sherlock, but neither of them seemed of the right mind. And _someone_ had to, of course; it wouldn’t do for the family to appear distant.  
  
Mycroft walked up to the podium with his notes on a small slip of paper. He unfolded it carefully, smoothing out the creases, and began.   
  
He’d never been to a funeral before. He didn’t know what a eulogy should have sounded like until he did a bit of research, and after that, he just followed the usual pattern and filled in words that fit her best. He was finished within five minutes.  
  
As Mycroft looked up, his eyes went to his father first, who was staring intently at the ugly beige carpeting. He then glanced at Sherlock.  
  
He was still holding Victor’s hand, though his grip seemed almost painful, and Victor appeared to be grimacing. Sherlock’s Adam’s apple wavered, and he swallowed heavily, his bottom lip still trembling. His eyes were red, and Mycroft could see the tracks of tears down his cheeks.   
  
Mycroft took his seat, again not looking directly at Sherlock.  
  
The service itself was over quickly; within twenty minutes they were standing, accepting handshakes from the various guests and offering for them to have brunch at the manor. Some accepted, most did not. Mycroft was fine with that; although he had been the one to organize the food, he honestly would rather it go to waste than have to entertain other people.   
  
His father did most of the greeting, accepting apologies graciously. Mycroft stood next to him, arms behind his back, while Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though the suit he was wearing was weighing on him heavily. The tear stains on his face were gone, and he seemed better in control of himself. Victor excused himself to use the toilet, leaving was just the three of them.  
  
“Victor seems fond,” Mycroft commented as their father engaged in a weary conversation with an old friend.  
  
Sherlock shrugged, crossing his arms.   
  
“Very fond, actually.”  
  
A slight blush crept up Sherlock’s neck, but he still pointedly ignored Mycroft.   
  
“I wouldn’t trust him too much,” Mycroft said quietly. “He doesn’t seem as though he can keep a secret.”  
  
“He can keep a secret perfectly fine,” Sherlock mumbled, none of his usual venom in the words. “Unlike someone else, he doesn’t talk all the time.”  
  
“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s less trustworthy.”  
  
Sherlock turned toward him with a scowl. “Is this honestly what you want to talk about right now?”  
  
Mycroft turned away, facing front, with a raised eyebrow. _No, it is not. But you’re not going to want to talk about what we should be discussing, so we won’t._  
  
Victor returned soon after with a small smile. He and Sherlock don’t hold hands; a wise move, with their father standing just beside them.   
  
“She sounded lovely, your mum,” Victor said in a soft voice, probably only expecting Sherlock to hear. “I wish I could have met her.”


	22. Year 21

The first Christmas without Mummy was destined for disaster—or at least that had been Mycroft’s expectation. Their father worked right up until Christmas Eve, had Christmas and Boxing Day off, and then went back to work, so the preparations were left to Mycroft.

He was not thrilled.

The first item on his agenda was to get Sherlock to the house. Luckily, that hadn’t been too difficult; he had only agreed to come if Victor was allowed to visit, as well. Mycroft had supposed there were worse things Sherlock could have asked for, and if their father didn’t already have his suspicions about the two of them, he’d certainly have some now that they were sharing Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Unfortunately, that also meant that Mycroft had to do some last-minute gift shopping for Victor, which ultimately resulted in a few relatively-safe options that seemed appropriate for a… whatever he was.

He’d been wary, of course. Now was the perfect opportunity for Sherlock to act up and actually have a decent reason to be a prat. But he actually appeared to be happy. He smiled occasionally, and sometimes, when their father wasn’t looking, Victor would kiss his cheek, and Sherlock would turn a light shade of pink and push him away playfully. 

Mycroft was glad. He’d almost been worried that Sherlock would do something stupid in the wake of Mummy’s death, that he’d involve himself with people and things he shouldn’t have. Instead, he was happy, and had appeared to have moved on. 

Perhaps Mycroft had misjudged Victor.

On Christmas morning, the family gathered around the tree as they always had. The tree itself looked different; Mummy always had a decorative eye, and while Sherlock and Victor had covered the tree rather well with tinsel and fairy lights and ornaments, it didn’t look the same. The gifts under the tree weren’t as plentiful as they had been in past years. That was another thing Mummy loved doing: shopping for gifts. Something panged in Mycroft’s chest as the thought.

Their father made tea while Sherlock, Victor, and Mycroft settled into the sitting room. Sherlock and Victor shared a loveseat, while Mycroft chose the armchair next to their father’s recliner. Victor stole a quick kiss from Sherlock’s lips, and the blush it elicited from Sherlock made Mycroft roll his eyes.

Tea was served on a tray in Christmas mugs with candy canes sticking out the top, the same way Mummy used to make it. Mycroft was suddenly thankful for how hard their father was trying, and he shot him a kind glance as he sat down with a sigh into the recliner. 

After a moment, once everyone had given their tea a taste, their father waved toward the tree. “What are you lot doing sitting around, then? There’s presents to open!”

Sherlock and Victor game each other a look, and they dived into the pile, Victor organizing the gifts by recipient while Sherlock started tearing the wrapping off his own. 

Within twenty minutes, the gifts had been distributed, opened, and commented on, and the floor was covered in gift wrap and packaging. Sherlock had received a new professional-grade chemistry set to replace his old one, Victor got a nice leather strap watch, their father received a set of silk ties, and Mycroft had been given a new umbrella, which Sherlock had promptly proceeded to poke Mycroft in the side with.

The tea, not quite cold yet, was finished up, and while the boys crunched on the remains of their candy canes, Mycroft and his father went to the kitchen to work on brunch. 

As Mycroft was chopping vegetables for the salad, Sherlock and Victor erupted into laughter. His father snorted. 

“Wouldn’t have thought that,” he said quietly.

“Wouldn’t have thought what?” Mycroft asked, turning his head to him.

His father shrugged. “That he’s gay.”

Mycroft had to bite back a laugh. “Why not?”

“Well, it isn’t like you’ve ever brought anyone home. I just assumed neither of you were the sort.”

“I’m not.” Mycroft looked back down at the cutting board, grabbing another tomato and slicing it carefully. 

“He seems like a nice kid, though. Victor.”

Mycroft kept quiet.

“Sherlock hasn’t really acted like that with anyone before, has he? I suppose it’s a good thing that he is now.”

“Yes.” Mycroft finished with the tomatoes and dumped them into the bowl. “Salad’s ready.”

“Good.” His father cut off two small slices of the ham and offered one sneakily with a wink. 

Mycroft smiled a bit and took the bite of ham, nodding quickly after he’d tasted it. His father popped his into his mouth, then led the way to the table, the plate of ham in tow. Mycroft followed with the salad and a plate of bread.

“All right, lovebirds, brunch is ready,” his father called once the plates were arranged on the table. 

It took them several more minutes to arrive, and when they did, both Sherlock and Victor were red-faced, slightly out of breath, and avoiding each other’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Father's Day to my American friends!


	23. Year 22

Were Mycroft Prime Minister, the first thing he would ban would be chewing gum.  
  
The new apprentices were lined up in a tidy row. They were all chosen from the country’s most elite schools, and each had their connections to another governmental department. Some were the children of ambassadors; others were the offspring of members of Parliament. They were dressed impeccably; money could buy very nice bespoke suits, and they certainly all had a bit of money.  
  
Except, apparently, for Sherlock.  
  
He was at the end of the line, the last of ten. While his peers stood at attention, their hands clasped either in front or behind them, Sherlock had decided to cross his arms. He wasn’t wearing a suit, and his shirt was unbuttoned two buttons too far.   
  
The worst part was the gum. He had apparently grabbed a wad and shoved it in his mouth; the lump was clearly visible whenever he moved it from one side or the other of his mouth, and he looked very much like a squirrel with too many nuts in his mouth. But the _popping_. Every time Mycroft allowed his mind to think about his desk work, Sherlock would blow a bubble and let it pop, and before Mycroft could even begin to think about something else, Sherlock was popping it again.  
  
Mycroft, fortunately, was not the overseer for the apprentices, but because he had brought Sherlock’s name to the table, he was required to be present at their orientation. He was now regretting having done so, and he almost wished he could pull the apprenticeship coordinator aside and revoke his suggestion.  
  
It was a wonder Sherlock had even agreed to it, but their father had been delighted when he was accepted into the program, so of course Sherlock really hadn’t had any choice in the matter. The best thing—or, perhaps, the only good thing—about the arrangement was the fact that Mycroft would know if Sherlock got himself into trouble. They would arrive at work together and return home together, and it would mean less free time for Sherlock to be bored and do something he might regret.   
  
The usual speech was given about what to expect, where they would be primarily working, and behavior—Mycroft noticed that the apprentice director looked straight at Sherlock—and then they were wished well as each followed after the person they were to shadow. The shadowing was to take one week, and then afterward they would be allowed to help personal assistants and secretaries with the more menial tasks. Sherlock was assigned to Mycroft’s own PA, so Mycroft had agreed to collect him and take him to his office.   
  
“What am I supposed to do, then? File things? Buy you tea?” Sherlock grumbled, still smacking his gum.  
  
“You’re to do whatever Athena decides you’re to do,” Mycroft said. “If she would rather stay here while you get my tea, then so be it.”  
  
“I could poison your tea now.”  
  
“I’d know it before it even became a full-fledged idea in your mind.”  
  
Sherlock scoffed. _You’re not a mindreader._  
  
 _Aren’t we both?_ Mycroft motioned toward the door that led to his office. Behind it was Athena’s desk, and just behind that, after another door, was his own. An extra seat had been pulled up next to Athena’s desk, and she smiled up at Sherlock, her blonde hair bouncing as she sat up and beamed.  
  
“Hi, Sherlock! Mr. Holmes has told me so much about you.”  
  
Sherlock glanced over at Mycroft, but Mycroft just shrugged. They chose her, not me. “Athena, I would appreciate it very much if you would get Sherlock acclimated to the office today. Feel free to send him after my tea if you like.”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Holmes!”  
  
Mycroft quickly went to his door and closed it behind him before he could hear Sherlock’s complaining.

________________________  
  


“Athena’s job has to be the most boring job in the world.”  
  
Mycroft chuckled, looking down at the pavement as they walked back home. “I’ll tell her you said that.”  
  
“But she’s so _dull_. How do you stand it?”  
  
“How do you stand being around Victor for that long?”  
  
Sherlock made a face. “Victor’s different.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“He _is_. Much better than her. You really could do better.”  
  
“I’m not seeing my PA, Sherlock.”  
  
“Isn’t that what all of you do? Have sex with your secretaries?”  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. We all have sex scandals that will ruin our reputations once they’re discovered ten years from now, and I’m _certainly_ stupid enough to do so as well.”  
  
“Glad you’re finally admitting it.” Sherlock smirked. “The only questionable thing Victor and I do is take your money and make up false reports.”  
  
Mycroft blinked. Sherlock looked entirely too pleased.  
  
“Yes, Mycroft, I know you tried to get Victor to spy on me. He told me right after you asked, in hospital. So we decided we’d split the fee and I’d tell him what to tell you. Had some _real_ fun coming up with those.”  
  
Though he was thrown for a bit of a loop, Mycroft kept walking. Victor’s reports had been regular and realistic; Sherlock had done a good job selecting what to include in them to keep Mycroft from suspecting anything.  
  
“You do realize that I won’t be paying either of you now,” Mycroft said.  
  
Sherlock snorted. “We don’t need your money, anyway. It was just a way to get back at you.”  
  
“Upset that I don’t trust you when you say you’re doing well?”  
  
As expected, Sherlock ignored the question. “What’s in that, anyway?” he asked, pointing at Mycroft’s briefcase. "It looks light."  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“ _Nothing_?”  
  
“One does have to look the part of a politician.”  
  
“So you carry an empty briefcase around all day.”  
  
“It’s not empty all day. Sometimes I add in a notebook and pen if I might need it for a meeting.”  
  
“You don’t need a briefcase to look like a politician.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“It wasn’t a compliment. You grew up so posh, you manage the look all on your own.”  
  
Mycroft waited a beat to let Sherlock’s words sink in. “You do realize we’re from the same family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! I was in town most of Monday and Tuesday and by the time I got home all I could really do was collapse and sleep. 
> 
> I have a headcanon that all of Mycroft's past and present PAs have code names that start with A. Don't ask why; I have no idea where that came from.


	24. Year 23

The meeting had been going as well as could be expected. Tensions were high; Mycroft was having to do a bit of finagling to get everyone else on his side, but what else was new? There were three presentations scheduled within twenty minutes of each other, but it had already been nearly fifty minutes and they weren’t even finished with the first one.   
  
Two of the older gentlemen present were debating the merits of offshore banking whilst the door to the room opened and closed almost soundlessly. Athena crouched as she made her way to Mycroft’s chair; in all her effort to look inconspicuous, she ended up looking like a loon.   
  
“There’s a call for you, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered far too loudly, crouching down so only her head was visible above the table.   
  
“Get up, Athena; you look indecent,” Mycroft grumbled. “Tell them they can wait.”  
  
“It’s Mr. Trevor, sir.”  
  
It was about time for his bimonthly report, yes—even if Sherlock had in fact been doctoring the reports, Victor had continued to call in with his reports on schedule. Nothing had changed, really, a fact for which Mycroft was thankful. But this wasn't on schedule, and Victor knew that. “Tell him to call me later.”   
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Athena waddled out of room, still half-crouched. Mycroft turned back to the men at the meeting, rolling his eyes. He really did need a new PA.  
  
The argument finished, and the next presenter stood up and attempted to speak, but before he could even get to the point of his presentation, someone else decided that they had a better idea. The door opened again, and Athena, who looked even more frazzled than she had before, waddled back over to his chair.   
  
“He’s not hanging up, Mr. Holmes. He says it’s really urgent.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. “Then have him leave you a note.”  
  
“I tried. He won’t let me do that, either. Says he needs to speak to you.”  
  
 _Idiot_.   
  
Mycroft stood up slowly form his chair. More people had joined the argument, and it was difficult to discern one voice from another.  
  
“I need to take a call,” he said, his voice at its normal register. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a moment.”  
  
As expected, no one acknowledged that Mycroft had spoken, and he motioned for Athena to follow him back to his office.  
  
The sweet silence of the hallway after the door closed behind them instantly relaxed Mycroft, and his shoulders sagged. He felt several pounds lighter now, not having to listen to grown men act like… well, like his brother.  
  
“Did he mention anything to you?” Mycroft asked absently, taking his time walking back to the office. He could enjoy a bit of peace and quiet for a little while.  
  
“No. But he sounded really worried.” Athena frowned. “You don’t think Sherlock’s in trouble, do you?”  
  
“I don’t think we’ve any cause to worry, no.” He could remember a particularly _thrilling_ report in which Victor had frantically informed Mycroft that Sherlock had brought five stray dogs into their shared flat, and _whatever_ was Victor supposed to do while Sherlock was out? “He's more than likely just overreacting to Sherlock’s stupidity.”  
  
As Mycroft walked into his office complex, Sherlock was sitting at his own makeshift desk next to Athena's, looking up at both of them from his stack of paperwork. “Who’s called, some important diplomat?”  
  
“It happens to be absolutely none of your business,” Mycroft huffed as he walked past. He closed the door of his office and made himself comfortable in his chair before answering the phone, which was set beside the receiver to avoid hanging up. He picked the phone up and held it to his ear with a bit of a sigh. “I’d thought we agreed that you would only call when I was finished for the day, Victor. You know my workday ends at six.”  
  
“I know. But I had to call right now. And since he’s not here, he’s at work, I thought it would—I though it would be more safe.” Victor’s voice was harried, which wasn’t entirely unusual. “I tried to tell you before, when Sherlock was listening, and… I don’t know, act it out or something, but I suppose I wasn’t very good at that.”  
  
 _Definitely not_. “What do you need to tell me, Victor?” Mycroft asked, rubbing a hand over his face.  
  
“Sherlock’s been using… well, I don’t know what he’s been using, but he gets really lethargic and sort of spaces out for a long while, and I don’t really know what it means or why he does it, but he’s got to be using something, hasn’t he? And I tried to tell—well, show—you, but he was always there, and it only happened a few times, but—“  
  
“Get on with it,” Mycroft snapped.  
  
“I found… I don’t know for sure but it looks like… cocaine? And heroin, too—it looks like heroin, at least.”  
  
Everything went quiet. The clock on the wall was silent, and the buzzing static from the phone dulled to nothing. By the time Mycroft regained his hearing, Victor had apparently gone ahead and continued talking.  
  
“—Threw it all out, but I just worry about him, you know? And I don’t know that I can be around him anymore. It really was a lot that I found, and he’s been getting worse, and I don’t really know what to do. He’s careful around you, I know he is, but on weekends it’s like he’s never sober, and I just want to help him—“  
  
“Shut up!”  
  
It was overwhelming how much Mycroft hated Victor in that moment. He knew, of course, that he was projecting his anger onto him. He knew he was truly angry with Sherlock for being such a monumental buffoon.   
  
But Victor was there, and Victor was handy enough to pour all his anger out onto. And, luckily for Victor, he had actually done as Mycroft asked.  
  
“Now.” Mycroft sighed, suddenly exhausted. Gathering up enough hatred to yell took a lot out of him, especially on a day like today was turning out to be. “I assume you’re thinking about leaving him.”  
  
Victor was quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”  
  
“I would ask that you stay with him temporarily. Voice your concerns, tell him you’re upset. Anything I do will only make him defiant. He obviously has a bit of control over it if he’s showing up to work sober—I did just see him, and he seemed entirely fine.”  
  
“He may be all about mind over matter, but this is serious stuff. He needs rehab—”  
  
“What he needs is a boyfriend who will stay with him,” Mycroft retorted. “You will talk to him, and you will help him to the best of your ability.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Goodbye, Mr. Trevor.”  
  
The phone clicked as it was placed into the receiver. Mycroft buried his face in his hands, propping his elbows up on his desk. After ten deep breaths, he stood, leaving his office.  
  
“You look like hell,” Sherlock said with a snort, punctuating his comment by stapling a stack of pages together.  
  
Mycroft returned to the meeting without another word.   
  
He hadn’t been missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the week since the last update. I just couldn't find the energy to write.
> 
> But! I've started on Camp NaNo, and I'm on track to finish things up by the end of July. Of course, I won't be posting a new chapter every day; we'll be sticking to the usual schedule (for real this time) and, hopefully, I'll have another fic finished and ready to go that I've been working on for over a year, so stay tuned for that!
> 
> If you want to join my Camp NaNo cabin, just send me a message with your NaNo username so I can invite you and we can bemoan how terrible writing is and rejoice in meeting our goals!


	25. Year 24

The fourth time Sherlock showed up to work high. Athena came into Mycroft’s office, her bottom lip quivering and her eyes watery. Mycroft, who was on the phone with an emissary, held a hand up to her.  
  
“Yes, I understand the urgency of your request, Mr. Zazio, but I’m afraid—“  
  
“M-Mr. Holmes—“  
  
Mycroft glared at Athena, then focused back on his conversation. Really, she should know by now. “Of course, yes, but we simply don’t have the resources at this time to accomplish what you’re—“  
  
_Sniffle_.  
  
“—asking of us.” Mycroft frowned. “I would be more than happy to discuss terms with you in person, but from our recent estimates, I doubt any sort of agreement would be—“  
  
_Sniffle sniffle_.  
  
“—would meet your terms.” Athena knew better than to do that, and Mycroft hoped the look he gave her was menacing enough to get her to go away, but she stayed where she was, not even looking up at him.  
  
It was something serious, then.  
  
“Can you excuse me for just one moment, Mr. Zazio? I’m terribly sorry.” Mycroft covered the receiver with his hand, rolling his eyes. “What is it now?”  
  
“M-Mr. Holmes,” Athena stuttered, sniffling between words. “Sherlock—Sherlock, he—“  
  
Mycroft picked the phone back up with a sigh. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Zazio, but I’m afraid I need to go. Urgent business. I’ll redirect you to my PA, and she’ll see if we can schedule a meeting with you for sometime next week.” He hung up the phone before he could hear an answer, which would probably bite him in the arse later, he knew, but this was getting to the point of ridiculousness.  
  
He looked up at Athena, at the tears in her eyes, and he felt nothing. No compassion, no empathy, nothing. That was odd. He knew it was odd. He knew he should have some sort of reaction to that. Instead, he simply said, “Bring him in. Give yourself a moment, have a tissue, and then please schedule a meeting with Mr. Zazio for Thursday evening. Rearrange other meetings if you must.”  
  
Athena stared at him for a moment, her sniffles forgotten momentarily, and then she nodded, rubbing her nose with the side of her hand timidly before running back out of his office.  
  
Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his chair. He knew this would have to happen at some point; he’d only wished it would have lasted long enough for Sherlock to decide he wanted to be in politics. Or have a job at all, really. Mycroft didn’t care so long as he showed up sober.  
  
The door opened and slammed against the wall, nearly making Mycroft jump. Sherlock’s shirt was, again, unbuttoned too far down to have been appropriate, his hair was mussed, and his eyes were wild. “ _What_ ,” he demanded, less of a question than a statement.  
  
“You know precisely what. Close the door behind you— _like a mature adult_.”  
  
Which, of course, Sherlock didn’t. The slam wasn’t quite as loud this time, but the spite was palpable.  
  
Mycroft stood up, motioning toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit down.”  
  
“No.” Sherlock swayed on his feet. “I’m not sitting so you can talk down to me.”  
  
“I’d be talking down to you regardless of whether you stand or sit.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “So _sit_.”  
  
Sherlock did as he was told, though not without taking his sweet time. By the time he collapsed into the chair, Mycroft had already poured himself a glass of brandy.  
  
“You do realize why I offered you this job, did I not?” he asked, looking at the glass in his hand rather than his brother.  
  
“I’m not _stupid_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock kicked the front of his desk.  
  
“I’m beginning to think that you are. Don’t kick the furniture.”  
  
“Oh, are you playing Mummy now? Great.”  
  
Mycroft glared at him. Sherlock had already turned away.  
  
“You’re fired, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock turned around. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“You heard me.” Mycroft sipped at his drink. “You don’t honestly think I haven’t noticed you’ve been high for the last several days?”  
  
Mycroft could see it written across Sherlock’s face: _You never said anything about it before!_  
  
“I never said anything because I thought you were smarter than that.” He paused. “Obviously, I wasn’t entirely accurate.”  
  
“I have it under control!” Sherlock stood. “I’m doing my work fine!”  
  
“Athena came into my office crying during a phone meeting,” Mycroft snapped, standing as well. It was a good thing there was a desk between them; the barrier made it easier for Mycroft to keep his anger under control. “You upset one of my employees.”  
  
“She isn’t even a _good_ employee! I do her work better than she does—“  
  
“And you’re only just barely on the payroll,” Mycroft reminded him, his hands turning into fists on the table. “You won’t be missed by anyone.”  
  
Sherlock looked as though Mycroft had struck him. _You don’t even like her!_  
  
Mycroft sat back down, tidying up the scant amount of paperwork on his desk absently. “Get your things and get out of my office, Sherlock. I’ll see you at home.”  
  
“I hate you,” Sherlock spat, kicking his plastic chair away from him. His face was red, his eyes fiery. “I fucking _hate_ you.”  
  
Mycroft did not look up until the door opened and closed again, without a slam.

He picked up the phone again and asked security to escort Sherlock home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lateness. We had guests for the 4th of July, so unfortunately I didn't have time to get this ready for Sunday, and, well, by the time it was finished we were closer to Wednesday anyway *shrugs*.
> 
> EDIT: We have a chapter count!


End file.
